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FIRST    IMPRESSIONS 


OF 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLll 


BY 


HUGH    MILLER,     . 

AUTHOR    OF     "the    FOOTPRINTS    OF    THE     CREATOR," 
"  THE   OLD    RED   SANDSTONE,"    ETC. 


'  Do  you  not  think  a  man  may  be  the  wiser —  I  had  almost  said  the  better  —  for  going 
a  hundred  or  two  of  miles?"  —  Gray's  Letters. 


TWELFTH    THOUSAND. 


NEW     YORK: 

ROBERT   CARTER  AND    BROTHERS, 

530  Broadway. 

1882. 


TO    THE   READER. 


T  MEs  have  changed  since  our  earlier  British  Novelists,  when 
Hxey  sought  to  ntialce  the  incidents  lie  thick  in  their  fictions,  gave 
them  the  form  of  a  journey,  and  sent  their  heroes  a  travelling  over 
England.  The  one-iiaif  of  "Tom  Jones,"  two-thirds  of  "Joseph 
Andrews,"  not  a  few  of  the  most  amusing  chapters  in  "  Roderick 
Random  "  and  "  Launcelot  Greaves,"  and  the  whole  of  "  Hum- 
phrey Clinker,"  are  thrown  into  this  form.  They  are  works  of 
English  travels  ;  and  the  adventures  with  which  they  are  enlivened 
arise  by  the  wayside. 

It  would  be  rather  a  difficult  matter,  in  these  later  times,  to  make 
a  novel  out  of  an  English  tour.  The  country,  measured  by  days' 
journeys,  has  grown  nine-tenths  smaller  than  it  was  in  the  times  of 
Fielding  and  Smollett.  The  law  has  become  too  strong  for  Captain 
Macheath  the  '"is^hwayman,  and  the  public  too  knowing  for  Mr 
Jenkinson  the  swindler.  The  journeyer  by  moonlight,  who  acci- 
dentally loses  his  road,  stumbles  on  no  "  Hermit  of  the  Hill.' 
wrapped  up  in  a  grotesque  dress  of  skins  ;   but  merely  encounters 

instead,  some  suspicious   gamekeeper,   taking   his   night-rounds    in 
1* 


VI  TO    THE    READER. 

nehalf  of  the  Sq aire's  pheasants.  When  mill-dams  give  way  dur 
Ing  the  rains,  honest  Mat  Brambles  do  not  discover,  in  consequence 
their  affinity  to  devoted  Humphrey  Clinkers  :  there  is  merely  a  half- 
hour's  stoppage  of  the  train,  barren  of  incident,  save  that  the  male 
passengers  get  out  to  smoke,  while  the  ladies  sit  still.  And  as  for 
the  frequent  trageay  of  railway  collision  accidents,  it  has  but  little 
of  the  classic  about  it,  and  is  more  appropriately  recorded  in  news- 
paper columns,  struck  off  for  the  passing  day,  than  in  pages  of 
higher  pretensions,  written  for  to-morrow.  England  has  become  a 
greatly  less  fertile  field  of  adventure  than  when,  according  to  the 
AnglicB  Metropolis  for  1690,  the  "  weekly  wagon  of  Richard  Ham- 
ersly  the  carrier"  formed  the  sole  conveyance,  for  passengers  who 
did  not  ride  horses  of  their  own,  between  Brumegham  and  the 
capital. 

But  though  the  age  of  personal  adventure  has  to  a  certainty  gone 
by,  the  age  which  has  succeeded  is  scarcely  less  fertile  in  incident 
m  a  larger  scale,  and  of  a  greatly  more  remarkable  character.  It 
would  seem  as  if  the  same  change  which  has  abridged  the  area  of 
(he  country  had  given  condensation  to  its  history.  We  are  not  only 
travelling,  but  also,  as  a  people,  living  fast ;  and  see  revolutions 
which  were  formerly  the  slow  work  of  ages  matured  in  a  few  brief 
seasons.  Opinion,  during  the  last  twenty  years,  has  accomplished, 
though  in  a  reverse  order,  the  cycle  of  the  two  previous  centuries. 
From  the  Reformation  to  the  Revolution,  the  ecclesiastical  reigned 
oaramount  in  men's  minds  :  from  the  Revolution  to  the  breaking 
Dut  of  the  first  American  war,  —  a  quiet  time  in  the  main, — go" 


TO    THE    READER.  ^Tj 

grnmrnts  manaj^ed  their  business  much  through  the  medium  of 
individual  influence,  little  personal  interests  carried  the  day,  and 
monarchs  and  ministers  bulked  large  in  the  forefront  of  the  passing 
events  :  from  the  firs'  American  war  till  the  rise  of  Napoleon,  the 
hot  political  delirium  raged  wide  among  tlie  masses,  and  even  states- 
men of  the  old  school  learned  to  recognize  the  people  as  a  power. 
Now,  such,  in  effect,  has  been  the  cycle  of  the  last  twenty  years 
The  reign  of  George  the  Fourth  was  also  that  of  personal  and  partj 
influence.  With  the  accession  of  William  the  political  fever  again 
broke  out,  and  swept  the  country  in  a  greatly  more  alterative  anc 
irresistible  form  than  at  first.  And  now,  here,  in  the  times  of  Vic- 
toria, are  we  scarce  less  decidedly  enveloped  in  the  still  thickening 
ecclesiastical  element  than  our  ancestors  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
If  there  be  less  of  personal  adventure  in  the  England  of  the  pres- 
3nt  day  than  in  that  of  Queen  Anne  and  the  two  first  Georges,  there 
is,  as  if  to  make  amends,  greatly  more  of  incident  in  the  history  of 
the  masses.  It  has  been  remarked  by  some  students  of  the  Apoca- 
lypse, that  the  course  of  the  predicted  events  at  first  moves  slowly, 
as,  one  after  one,  six  of  the  seven  seals  are  opened  ;  that,  on  the 
opening  of  the  seventh  seal,  the  progress  is  so  considerably  quick- 
ened that  the  seventh  period  proves  as  fertile  in  events,  —  repre- 
sented by  the  sounding  of  the  seven  trumpets,  —  as  the  foregoing 
six  taken  together  ;  and  that,  on  the  sounding  of  the  seventh  trumpet, 
80  great  is  the  further  acceleration,  that  there  is  an  amount  of  inci- 
dent condensed  in  this  seventh  part  of  the  seventh  period,  equal,  as 
«n  tfie  former  rase,  to  that  of  all  the  previous  six  parts  in  one. 


Vm  TO    THE    READEK. 

There  are  three  cycles,  it  has  been  said,  in  the  scheme, — cyclp 
within  c)cle  ;  the  second  comprised  within  a  seventh  portion  of  the 
nr3t,  and  the  third  within  a  seventh  portion  of  the  second.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  we  may  at  least  see  something  that  exceedingly  resembles 
it  in  tbit  actual  economy  of  change  and  revolution  manifested  in 
English  history  for  the  last  two  centuries.  It  would  seem  as  if 
events,  in  their  downward  course,  had  come  under  the  influence 
of  that  law  of  gravitation  through  which  falling  bodies  increase 
in  speed,  as  they  descend,  according  to  the  squares  of  the  dis- 
tances. 

Though  there  may  be  little  to  encounter  in  such  a  state  of  society, 
there  must,  of  necessity,  be  a  good  deal  to  observe  :  the  traveller 
may  have  few  incidents  to  relate,  and  yet  many  appearances  to 
describe.  He  finds  himself  in  the  circumstances  of  the  mariner 
who  sits  listlessly  in  the  calm  and  sunshine  of  a  northern  summer 
and  watches  the  ever-changing  aspect  of  some  magnificent  iceberg, 
as  its  sun-gilt  pinnacles  sharpen  and  attenuate,  and  its  deep  fissures 
widen  and  extend,  and  the  incessant  rush  of  the  emancipated  waters 
is  heard  to  reecho  from  amid  the  green  light  of  the  dim  twilight 
caverns  within.  Society  in  England,  in  the  present  day,  exists, 
like  the  thawing  iceberg,  in  a  transition  state,  and  presents  its  con 
sequent  sliiftings  of  aspect  and  changes  of  feature  ;  and  such  is  the 
peculiar  degree  of  sensitiveness  at  which  the  government  of  the 
country  has  arrived,  —  partly,  it  would  seem,  from  the  fluctuating 
lature  of  the  extended  basis  of  representation  on  which  it  now 
rests   - -that,  like  some  nervous  valetudinarian,  open  to  every  inflo 


TO    THE    RF»DER.  IX 

ence  of  climate  and  the  weather,  tk.-.s  is  scaice  a  change  that  can 
come  o^el  opinion,  or  affect  the  people  in  even  their  purely  physical 
concerns,  which  does  not  more  or  less  fully  index  itself  in  the 
Rtatute-book.  The  autumn  of  1845,  in  which  I  travelled  over  Eng- 
land, was  ungenial  and  lowering,  and  I  saw  wheaten  fields  deeply 
tinged  with  brown,  —  an  effect  of  the  soaking  rains,  —  and  large 
tracts  of  diseased  potatoes.  A  season  equally  bad,  however,  twenty 
years  ago  would  have  failed  to  influence  the  politics  of  the  country 
Its  frequent  stoims  might  have  desolated  the  fruits  of  the  earth 
but  they  would  have  made  no  impression  on  the  Statutes  at  Large. 
But  the  storms  of  1845  proved  greatly  more  influential.  They  were 
included  in  the  cycle  of  rapid  change,  and  annihilated  at  once  the 
Protectionist  policy  and  party  of  the  empire.  And  amid  the  fer- 
menting components  <tf  English  society  there  may  be  detected  ele- 
ments of  revolution  in  their  first  causes,  destined,  apparently,  to 
exercise  an  influence  on  public  affairs  at  least  not  less  considerable 
than  the  rains  and  tempests  of  the  Autumn  of  Forty-Five.  The 
growing  Tractarianism  of  the  National  Church  threatens  to  work 
grea'-er  changes  than  the  bad  potatoes  ;  and  the  semi-infidel  liberal- 
ism of  the  country,  fast  passing  into  an  aggressive  power,  than  the 
damaged  corn 

The  reader  will  find  in  the  following  pages,  as  from  these  remarks 
be  may  be  led  to  anticipate,  scarce  any  personal  anecdote  or  adven- 
ture :  they  here  and  there  record  a  brief  dialogue  by  the  way-side, 
or  in  some  humble  lodging-house,  and  here  and  there  a  solita;y 
itrol.   thro  gh   a  wood,  or  a  thoughtful  lounge   in  a  quarry;  bu> 


I  TO    THE    READER. 

then  is  considerably  more  of  eye  and  ear  in  them,  —  of  things  seen 
and  heard,  —  than  of  aught  else.  They  index,  however,  not  much 
of  vhat  he  might  be  led  equally  to  expect,  —  those  diagnostic  symp- 
toms impressed  on  the  face  of  society,  that  indicate  the  extensive 
chaiges,  secular  and  ecclesiastical,  which  seem  so  peculiarly  charac- 
teristic of  the  time.  The  journey  of  which  they  form  a  record  was 
undertaken  purely  for  purposes  of  relaxation,  in  that  state  of  indif 
ferent  health,  and  consequent  languor,  which  an  over-strain  of  the 
mental  faculties  usually  induces,  and  in  which,  like  the  sick  animal 
that  secludes  itself  from  the  herd,  man  prefers  walking  apart  from 
his  kind,  to  seeking  them  out  in  the  bustle  and  turmoil  of  active 
life,  there  to  note  peculiarities  of  aspect  or  character,  like  an  adven- 
turous artist  taking  sketches  amid  the  heat  of  a  battle.  They  will, 
however,  lead  the  reader  who  accompanies  me  in  my  rambles  con- 
siderably out  of  the  usual  route  of  the  tourist,  into  sequestered 
corners,  associated  with  the  rich  literature  of  England,  or  amid 
:Dcks  and  caverns,  in  which  the  geologist  finds  curious  trace  of 
ihe  history  of  the  country  as  it  existed  during  the  long  cycles  ot 
the  bj'gone  creations.  I  trust  I  need  scarce  apologize  to  the  gen- 
eral reader  for  my  frequent  transitions  from  the  actual  state  of 
things  to  those  extinct  states  which  obtained  in  what  is  now  Eng 
land,  during  the  geologic  periods.  The  art,  so  peculiar  to  the 
present  age,  of  deciphering  the  ancient  hienglyphics  sculptured  on 
the  rocks  of  our  country,  is  gradually  extending  from  the  few  to 
the  many  •  it  will  be  comparatively  a  common  accomplishment  hall 
R  generation  hen^e  ;  and  when  the  hard  names  of  the  science  shaU 


TO    THE    READER.  Xi 

have  become  familiar  enough  no  longer  to  obscire  ils  poetry,  it  wil.' 
be  found  that  what  I  have  attempted  to  do  will  be  done,  proportion- 
ally to  their  measure  of  ability,  by  travellers  generally.  In  hazard- 
ing the  prediction,  I  build  on  the  fact,  that  it  is  according  to  the 
intellectual  nature  of  man  to  delight  in  the  metaphor  and  the  simile 
—  in  pictures  of  the  past  and  dreams  of  the  future,  —  in  short,  ir. 
whafpver  introd'j(res  amid  one  set  of  figures  palpable  to  the  senses 
another  visible  but  to  the  imagination,  and  thus  blends  the  idea, 
with  the  actual,  like  some  fanciful  allegorist,  sculptor,  or  painter 
who  mixes  up  with  his  groups  of  real  personages  qualities  and  dis- 
positions embodied  in  human  form,  —  angelic  virtues  with  wings 
growing  out  of  their  shoulders,  and  brutal  vices  furnished  witli  tails 
and  claws.  And  it  is  impossible,  such  being  the  mental  constitution 
of  the  species,  to  see  the  events  of  other  creations  legibly  engraved 
all  around,  as  w'th  an  iron  pen,  on  the  face  of  nature,  without  let- 
ting the  mind  loose  to  expatiate  on  those  historic  periods  to  which 
the  record  so  graphically  refers.  The  geologist  in  our  own  countrv 
feels  himself  in  exactly  the  circumstances  of  the  traveller  who  jour 
neys  amid  the  deserts  of  Sinai,  and  sees  the  front  of  almost  even 
precipice  rovighentul  with  antique  inscriptions  of  which  he  has  just 
discovered  the  key,  —  inscriptions  that  transport  him  from  the  silenco 
and  solitude  of  the  present,  to  a  darkly  remote  past,  when  the  lone- 
liness of  the  wilderness  was  cheered  by  the  white  glitter  of  unnum- 
bered tents,  and  the  breeze,  as  it  murmured  by,  wont  laden  witli  the 
cheerful  hum  of  a  great  people. 

It  may  be  judged,  I  am   afraii'    that  to  some  of  tha  localitiea  ' 


II!  TO    THR    READER. 

tlevoied  too  much  and  to  some  too  little  time,  in  proportif^n  tj  the 
degree  of  interest  which  attached  to  them.  The  Leasowes  detained 
me  considerably  longer  than  Stratford-on-Avon  ;  and  1  oftencr  refer 
to  Shenstone  than  to  Shakspeare.  It  will,  I  trust,  be  found,  how- 
ever, that  I  was  influenced  in  such  cases  by  no  suspicious  sympathy 
with  the  .itile  and  the  mediocre  ;  and  that,  if  I  preferred  at  times 
tho  less  fertile  to  the  richer  and  belter  field,  it  has  been  simply,  not 
because  I  failed  to  estimate  their  comparative  values,  but  because  1 
found  a  positive  though  scanty  harvest  awaiting  me  on  the  one,  and 
on  the  other  the  originally  luxuriant  swathe  cut  down  and  carried 
away,  and  but  a  vacant  breadth  of  stubble  left  to  the  belated  gleaner. 
Besides,  it  is  not  in  his  character  as  a  merely  tasteful  versifier,  but 
as  a  master  in  tlie  art  of  developing  the  beauties  of  landscape,  that 
I  have  had  occasion  to  refer  to  Shenstone.  He  is  introduced  to  the 
reader  as  the  nvthor  of  the  Leasowes,  —  a  work  which  cost  him 
more  thought  and  labor  than  all  his  other  compositions  put  together, 
and  which  the  general  reader,  who  has  to  prosecute  his  travels  by 
the  fire-side,  can  study  but  at  second  hand,  —  as  it  now  exists  in 
Bketches  such  as  mine,  or  as  it  existed,  at  the  death  of  its  author, 
in  the  more  elaV,orate  description  of  Dodsley.  It  is  thus  not  to  a 
minor  poet  that  1  have  devoted  a  chapter  or  two,  but  to  a  fine  rural 
poem,  some  two  or  three  hundred  acres  in  extent,  that  cannot  be 
printed,  and  that  exists  nowhere  in  duplicate. 

It  does  matter  considerably  in  some  things  that  a  man's  cradle 
sitould  have  been  rocked  to  the  north  of  the  Tweed  ;  and  as  I  have 
been  at  less  pains  to  suppress  in  my  writings  the  peculiarities  of  th« 


TO   THE    READER.  XIII 

Scot  and  the  Presbj*eiian  than  is  perhaps  common  with  my  country- 
folk and  brother  Churchmen,  the  Englishman  will  detect  much  in 
these  pages  to  remind  him  that  mine  was  rocked  to  the  north  of  the 
Tweed  very  decidedly.  I  trust,  however,  that  if  he  deem  me  in  the 
main  a  not  ill-natured  companion,  he  may  feel  inclined  to  make  as 
large  allowances  for  the  peculiar  prejudices  of  my  training  as  he 
sees  me  making  on  most  occasions  for  the  peculiar  prejudices  of 
!:i.s ;  that  he  may  forgive  me  my  partialities  to  my  own  poor  coun- 
try, if  they  do  not  greatly  warp  my  judgment  nor  swallow  up  ray 
love  for  my  kind  ;  that  he  may  tolerate  my  Presbyterian  ism,  if  he 
find  it  rendering  a  reason  for  its  preferences,  and  not  very  bigoted  in 
its  dislikes  ;  and,  in  short,  that  wc  may  part  friends,  not  enemies, 
if  he  can  conclude,  without  over-straining  his  charity,  that  I  have 
communicated  fairly,  and  in  no  invidious  spirit,  mv  first  Impres- 
•ions  of  England  and  its  People. 
2 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Led  fe)  convert  an  intended  Voyage  to  Orkney  into  a  Journey  to  Englam 

—  Objects  of  tl.e  Journey. —Carter  Fell. —The  Border  Line.  — VVci. 
for  England  it  should  have  been  so  doggedly  maintained  by  the  weakei 
Country.  — Otierlmni.  — The  Mountain  Limestone  in  England,  what  il 
is  not  in  Scotland,  a  true  Mountain  Limestone. —  Scenery  changes  as 
•we  enter  the  Coal  Measures.  —  Wretched  Weather.  —  Newcastle. — 
Methodists. — Controversy  on  the  Atouement.  —  The  Popular  Mind  in 
So.-tland  mainly  developed  by  its  Theology.  —  Newcastle  Museum  ;  rich 
in  its  Geology  and  its  Antiquities  ;  both  branches  of  one  subject.  — 
Geoio^ic  History  of  the  Roman  Invasion.  —  Durh;im  Cathedral. — The 
Monuments  of  Nature  greatly  more  enduring  than  those  of  Man.  — Ci/a- 
thophijllum  F\ingiles.  —  The  Spotted  Tubers,  and  what  they  indicated. 

—  The  Destiny  of  a  Nation  involved  in  the  Growth  of  a  minute 
Fungus 25 


CHAPTER    II. 

Weather  still  miserably  bad  ;  suited  tc  betray  the  frequent  Poverty  of 
English  Landscape.  —  Gloomy  Prospects  of  the  Agriculturist.  —  Corn- 
Law  League.  —  York  ;  a  true  Sacerdotal  City.  —  Cathedral ;  noble  Ex- 
terior :  Interior  not  less  impressive  ;  Congreve's  sublime  Description.  — 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

Unpardonable  Solecism.  —  Procession. — Dean  Cockbjrn  ;  Orusiile 
against  the  Geologists.  —  Cathedral  Service  unworthy  of  the  Cathedral. 

—  Walk  on  the  City  Ramparts.  —  Flat  Fertility  of  the  surrounding 
Country.  —  The  more  interesting  Passages  in  the  History  of  York  sup- 
plied by  the  A/aA-ers.  —  Robinson  Crusoe. —Jeanie  Deans.  —  Trial  of 
Eugcu2  Aram.  —  Aram's  real  Character  widely  different  from  that  drawt 
by  the  Novelist 4j 

CHAPTER    IIJ. 

Quit  York  for  Manchester.  —  A  Character.  —  Quaker  Lady.  —  Peculiar 
Feature  in  the  Husbandry  of  the  Cloth  District.—  Leeds.  —  Simplicity 
manifested  in  the  Geologic  Framework  of  English  Scenery.  —  The  Df- 
nuding  Agencies  almost  invariably  the  sole  Architects  of  the  Landscape. 

—  M^nchesier  ;  characteristic  Peculiarities  ;  the  Irwell  ;  Collegiate 
Chur,  ii;  light  and  elegant  Proportions  of  the  Building;  its  grotesque 
Sculptures  ;  these  indicative  of  the  Scepticism  of  the  Age  in  which  thej 
were    produced.  —  St.   Bartholomew's   Day. —  Sermon  on  Saints' Day. 

—  Timothy's  Grandmother.  —  The  Puseyite  a  High  Churchman  become 
earnest.  —  Passengers  of  a  Sunday  Evening  Train.  —  Sabbath  Amuse- 
ments not  very  conducive  to  Happiness. —  The  Economic  Value  of  the 
Sabbath  ill  understood  by  the  Utilitarian.  —  Testimony  of  History  on 
the  point ,  ...     55 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Quit  Manciestcr  for  Wolverhampton.  —  Scenery  of  the  New  R«d  Sand 
stone  ;  apparent  Repetition  of  Pattern.  —  The  frequent  Marshes  of  Eng 
land;  curiously  represented  in  the  National  Literature;  Influence  on 
the  National  Superstitions.  -  -  Wolverhampton.  —  Peculiar  Aspect  of  the 
Dudley  Coal-field  ;  striking  Passage  in  its  History. —  The  Rise  of  Bir- 
mingham into  a  great  Manufacturing  Town  an  Effect  of  the  Develop 


CONTENTS.  XVU 

ment  of  its  Mineral  Treasures. — Upper  Ludlow  Depoi.it;  Aymestrj 
Limestone  ;  tioth  Deposits  of  peculiar  Interest  to  the  Scotch  Geologist 
-The  Lingula  Lewisii  and  Terebratula  Wilsoni.  —  General  Resem 
blance  of  the  Silurian  Fossils  to  those  of  the  Mountain  Limestone.  — 
First-born  of  the  Vertebrata  yet  known.  —  Order  of  Creation.  —  The 
Wren's  Nest.  —  F'ossils  of  the  Wenlock  Limestone  ;  in  a  State  of  beauti- 
ful Keeping.  —  Anecdote.  —  Asaphus  Caudatus  ;  common,  it  would  seem, 
to  both  the  Silurian  and  Carboniferous  Rocks.  —  Limestone  Meiers.  — 
Noble  Gallery  excavated  in  the  Hill 73 

CHAPTER    V. 

Dudley;  significant  Marks  of  the  Mining  Town.  —  Kindly  Scotch  Land- 
lady.—  Temperance  Coflee-house.  —  Little  Samuel  the  Teetotaller. — 
Curious  Incident.  —  Anecdote.  —  The  Resuscitated  Spinet.  —  F'orbear- 
ance  of  little  Samuel.  —  Dudley  Museum;  singularly  rich  in  Silurian 
Fossils.  —  Megalichtkiis  Ilibberti.  —  Fossils  from  Mount  Lebanon  ;  very 
modern  compared  with  those  of  the  Hill  of  'Dudley.  —  Geology  pecu- 
liarly fitted  to  revolutionize  one's  Ideas  of  Modern  and  Ancient.  —  Fos- 
sils of  extreme  Antiquity  furnished  by  a  Canadian  Township  that  had 
jo  name  twenty  years  ago.  —  F'ossils  from  the  Old  Egyptian  Desert  found 
to  be  comparatively  of  Yesterday.  —  Dudley  Castle  and  Castle-hill. — 
Cromwell's  Mission.  —  Castle  finds  a  faithful  Chronicler  in  an  old 
Serving-maid.  —  Her  Narrative. — Caves  and  F.jssils  of  the  Castle- 
hill.  —  E.xtcnsive  E.xcavations.  —  Superiority  of  the  Natural  to  the  Arti- 
ficial Cavern.  —  Fossils  of  the  Scottish  Grauwacke.  —  Analogy  between 
the  Female  Lobster  and  the  Trilobite 92 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Ptoui bridge.—  Effect  of  Plutonic  Convulsion  on  the  surrounding  Scenerv- 
—  H;gley  ;  Description  in  th°  "  Seasons."  —  Geology  the  true  Anatomv 

2* 


JtVin  CONTENTS. 

of  Landscape.  -  Geologic  SkeicL  of  Hagley.  —  The  Road  to  the  R  ices 

—  The  old  Stone-cutter.  —  Thomson's  Hollow.  —  His  visits  to  Hagley 

—  Shenstono's  Urn.  —  Peculiarities  of  Taste  founded  often  on  a  Sub- 
stratum of  Personal  Character.  —  Illustration.  —  Rousseau.  —  Pope's 
Haunt.  —  L3  ttelton's  high  Admiration  of  the  Genius  of  Pope.  —  De- 
scription. —  Singularly  extensive  and  beautiful  Landscape ;  drawn  by 
Thomson.  — Reflection. —  Amazing  Multiplicity  of  the  Prospect  illus 
trative  of  a  Peculiarity  in  the  Descriptions  of  the  "  Seasons."  — Addi- 
eon's  Canon  on  Landscape  ;  corroborated  by  Shenstone.       ...      119 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Jlagley  Parish  Church.  —  The  Sepulchral  Marbles  of  the  Lytteltons.  — 
Epitaph  on  the  Lady  Lucy.  —  The  Phrenological  Doctrine  of  Hereditary 
♦transmission  ;  unsupported  by  History,  save  in  a  way  in  which  His- 
tory can  be  made  to  support  anything.  —  Thomas  Lord  Lyttelton  ;  his 
Moral  Character  a  strange  Contrast  to  that  of  his  Father.  — The  Elder 
Lyttelton ;  his  Death-bed.  —  Aberrations  of  the  Younger  Lord.  — 
Strange  Ghost  Story  ;  Curious  Modes  of  accounting  for  it.  —  Return  to 
Stourbridge.  —  Late  Drive.  —  Hales  Owen 138 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

Abbotsford  and  the  Leasowes.  —  The  one  place  naturally  suggestive  of 
the  other.  —  Shenstone.  —  The  Leasowes  his  most  elaborate  Composi- 
tion. —  The  English  Squire  and  his  Mill.  —  Hales  Owen  Abbey  ;  inter- 
esting, as  the  Subject  of  one  of  Shenstone's  larger  Poems. — The  old 
anti-Popish  Feeling  of  England  well  exemplified  by  the  Fact.  —  Its 
Origin  and  History. —  Decline.  —  Infidelity  naturally  favorable  to  the 
Resuscitation  and  Reproduction  of  Popery.  —  The  two  Naileresses.  — 
Cecilia  and  Delia.  —  Skeleton  Description  of  the  I  easowes.  —  Poetic 
fiilint;  up.  —  The  Spins  ar.  —  The  Fountain 16? 


CONTENTS.  M? 

CHAPTER    IX. 

Detour.  —  The  Leasowes  deteriorated  wherever  the  Poet  had  built,  and 
improved  wherever  he  had  planted.  —  View  from  the  Hanging  Wood. 
—  Stiatagem  jf  the  Island  Screen.  —  Virgil's  Grave.  —  Mound  of  the 
Hales  Owen  and  Birmingham  Canal  ;  its  sad  Interference  with  Shea- 
stcne's  Poetic  Description  of  the  Infancy  of  the  Stour.  —  Vanished 
Cascade  and  Root-house. —  Somerville's  Urn.  —  "  To  all  Friends  round 
the  Wrekin." —  River  Scenery  of  the  Leasowes  ;  their  great  Variety.  — 
Peculiar  Arts  of  the  Poet;  his  Vistas,  when  seen  from  the  wrong  end, 
Realizations  of  Hogarth's  Caricature.  —  Shenstone  the  greatest  of  Land- 
scape Gardeners.  —  Estimate  of  Johnson.  —  Goldsmith's  History  of  the 
Leasowes  ;  their  after  History 175 

CHAPTER    X. 

Shcnstone's  Verses. —  The  singular  Unhappiness  of  his  Paradise.  —  Eng- 
lish Cider.  — Scotch  and  English  Dwellings  contrasted.  —  The  Nailers 
of  Hales  Owen  ;  their  Politics  a  Century  ago.  —  Competition  of  the 
Scotch  Nailers  ;  unsuccessful,  and  why.' —  Samuel  Salt,  the  Hales  Owen 
Poet.  — Village  Church.  —  Salt  Works  at  Droitwich  ;  their  great  Anti- 
quity. —  Appearance  of  the  Village.  —  Problem  furnished  by  the  Sal 
Deposits  of  England  ;  various  Theories.  —  Rock  Salt  deemed  by  somi'.  t 
Volcanic  Product ;  by  others  the  Depositic.  of  an  overcharged  Sea  ;  by 
yet  others  the  Produce  of  vast  Lagoons.  —  l,eland.  —  The  Manufacture 
of  Salt  from  Sea- water  superseded,  even  i:.  Scotland,  by  the  Rock  Salt 
of  England 193 

CHAPTER    XI. 

Walk  to  ..le  Clent  Hills. —Incident  in  a  Fruit  Shop. —  St.  Kenelm't 
Chapel.  —Legend  of  St.  Keuelm. — Ancient  Village  of  Clcni ;  its  Ap 


IX  CONTENTS. 

pearance  and  Character.  —  View  from  the  Clent  Hills.  —  Mr.  Thomaa 
Moss.  —  Geologic  Peculiarities  of  the  Landscape;  Illustration.  —  The 
Scotch  Drift.  —  Boulders  ;  these  transported  by  the  Agency  of  Ice  Floes. 
—  Evidence  of  the  Former  Existence  of  a  broad  Ocean  Channel.  —  The 
Geography  of  the  Geologist.  —  Aspect  of  the  Earth  ever  Changing. — 
Get  graphy  of  the  Palceozoic  Period  ;  of  the  Secondary  ;  of  the  Ter- 
tiary.—  Ocean  the  great  Agent  of  Change  and  Dilapidation.     .     .     209 


CHAPTER    Xll. 

t  'ological  Coloiing  of  the  Landscape.  —  Close  Proximity  in  this  Neigh 
1  orhood  of  the  various  Geologic  Systems.  —  The  Oolite  ;  its  Medicinal 
Springs  ;  how  formed.  —  Cheltenham.  —  StrathpefTer.  —  The  Saliferous 
System  ;  its  Organic  Remains  and  Foot-prints.  —  Record  of  Curious 
Passages  in  the  History  of  the  Earlier  Reptiles.  —  Salt  Deposits.  — 
Theory.  —  The  Alistraction  of  Salt  from  the  Sea  on  a  large  Scale  prob- 
ably necessary  to  the  continued  Existence  of  its  Denizens.  —  Lowej 
New  Red  Sandstone.  —  Great  Geologic  Revolution.  —  Elevation  of  tht 
Trap.  —  Hills  of  Clent ;  Era  of  the  Elevation.  —  Coal  Measures  ;  theii 
three  Forests  in  the  Neighl)orhood  of  Wolverhampton.  —  Comparatively 
small  Area  of  the  Birmingham  Coal-field.  —  Vast  Coal-fields  of  the 
United  States.  —  Berkeley's  Prophecy.  —  Old  Red  Sandstone.  — Silurian 
System.  —  Blank 229 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

Birmingham  ;  incessant  Clamor  of  the  Place.  —  Toy-shop  of  Britain  ;  Se- 
rious Character  of  the  Games  in  which  its  Toys  are  chiefly  employed 
—  Museum.  —  Liberality  of  the  Scientific  English.  —  Musical  Genius 
of  B  rmingham.  —  Theory.  —  Controversy  with  the  Yorkers.  —  Anec- 
•loi.e.  —The  English  Language  spoken  very  variously  by  the  English ( 


CONTENTS.  XXI 

In  most  cases  spoken  very  ill.  —  English  Type  of  Pers  n. — Attend  a 
Pu&eyito  Chapel.  —  Puscyism  a  feelile  Imitation  of  Poj  cry.  —  Popish 
Cathedral.  —  Popery  the  true  Resiing-j)lace  of  the  Puscyite.  —  Sketch 
of  the  Rise  and  Proijress  of  the  Puseyite  Principle  ;  its  purposed  Object 
not  attained  ;  Hostility  to  Science.  —  English  Funerals.       .     .     .     !«52 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

Drive  from  Birmingham  to  Stratford  ratlier  tame.  —  Ancient  Building  'n 
a  modern-looking  Street ;  of  rude  and  hunilde  Appearance.  —  "The  Im- 
mortal Shakspeare  horn  in  this  House." —  Description  of  the  Interior  - 
The  Walls  and  Ceili'-g  covered  with  Names. —  Albums.  —  Shakspeare 
Scott,  Dickens;  greatly  diflerent  in  their  Intellectual  Stature,  but  yet 
all  of  one  Family.—  Prineijile  by  which  to  take  their  Measure. —  No 
Dramatist  overdraws  an  Intellect  taller  than  his  own.  —  Imitative  Fac- 
ulty.—  The  Reports  of  Dickens. —  Learning  of  Shakspeare. —  New 
^*lace.  — The  Rev.  Francis  Gastrall.  —  Stratford  Church.  — The  Poei's 
rJrave;  his  Bust;  far  sui)criiir  to  the  idealized  Representations. —  The 
AVun.  —  The  Jubilee,  and  Cowper's  Description  of  it.—  The  true  Hero 
Worship.  —  (luit  Stratford  for  OIney.  —  Get  into  bad  Company  by  the 
way. —  Gentlemen  of  the  Fancy.  —  Adventure 276 


CHAPTER    XV. 

Cowper;  his  singular  Magnanimity  of  Character  ;  Argui-'nt  furnisfiea  ny 
his  latter  Religious  History  against  the  Selfish  Phi.usophy. —  Valley 
of  the  Ouse.  —  Approach  to  Olney.  —  Appearance  of  the  Town.  —  Cow- 
per's House  ;  Parlor  ;  Garden  --  Pi|>p!n-tree  jjlanted  by  the  Poet.  • 
Summer-house  written  within  and  without.  — John  Tawell.  —  Delightlu* 
Old  Woman.  —  WestoT-Underwood.  —  Thomas  Si  otl's  House.  —  The 
Park  of  th3  Throckmortois.  —  Walk  described  in  '   The  Taslf    '—  Wil 


JXn  CONTENTS. 

derness.  —  Ancient  Avenue.  —Alcove;  Prospect  which  it  commai.ds 
as  drawn  hy  Cowper.  —  Col  cinade.  —  Rustic  Bridge.  —  Scene  of  tha 
"  Needless  Alarm."  — The  Milk  Thistle 297 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

Yardley  Oak  ;  of  immense  Size  and  imposing  Appearance.  —  Cowper's 
Description  singularly  illustrative  oi  his  complete  Mastery  over  Lan- 
guage.—  Peasant's  Nest. — The  Poet's  Vocation  peculiarly  one  of 
Revolution.  —  The  School  of  Pope;  supplanted  in  its  unproductive  Old 
Age  hy  that  of  Cowper.  —  Cowper's  Coadjutors  in  the  Work.  —  Econ- 
omy of  Literary  Revolution  —The  old  English  Yeoman.  —Quit  Olney. 
—  Companions  in  the  Journey.  —  Incident.  —  Newport  Pagnell. —  Mr. 
Bull  and  the  F'rench  Mystics.—  Lady  of  the  Fancy.  —Champion  of  all 
England.  —  Puerilism.  —  Anecdote 315 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

Cowper  and  the  Geologists.  — Geology  in  the  Poet's  Days  in  a  State  of 
great  Immaturity. — Case  different  now.  —  Folly  of  committing  the 
Bible  to  a  False  Science. — Galileo.  —  Geologists  at  one  in  all  their 
more  important  Deductions  ;  vast  Antiquity  of  the  Ear.h  one  of  these. 
—  Slate  of  the  Question.  —  Illustration.  —  Presumed  T.iickness  of  the 
Fossiliferous  Strata. — Peculiar  Order  of  their  Organic  Contents;  of 
their  Fossil  Fish  in  particular,  as  ascertained  by  Agassiz.  —  The  Geo- 
logic Races  of  Animal.s  entirely  diflerent  fron  those  which  sheltered 
with  Noah  in  the  Ark.  —  Alleged  Discrepancy  between  Geologic  Fact 
tnd  the  Mosaic  Record  not  real.  —  Inference  based  on  the  opening 
V^erses  of  the  Book  of  G:«.Mesis. — Parallel  Passage  adduced  to  prove 
".he  Inference  unsound. — Ine  Supposition  that  Fossils  may  have  been 
crea*»d  such  examined:  unworthy  of  the  Divine  Wisdom;  ccntr^ry  tr 


CONTENTS.  XXni 

the  Principles  which  regulate  Human  Belief ;  subversive  of  the  grand 
Argument  founded  on  Dtsign.  —  The  profounder  Theologians  of  the  Day 
not  Aali-Geologists.  —  Geologic  Fact  in  reality  of  a  kind  fitted  to  per- 
form important  Work  in  the  two  Theologies,  Natural  and  Revealea  ; 
sutiv«rsive  of  the  "  Infinite-Series"  Argument  of  the  Atheist;  subver- 
sive, toOj  of  the  Objection  drawn  by  Infidelity  from  an  Astronomical 
Analogy.  —  Couiter-objection.  —  Illustration 335 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

Tnc  Penny-a-mile  Train  and  its  Passengers.  — jluni  Jonathan.  — Loucloa 
by  Night.  —  St.  Paul's  ;  the  City  as  seen  from  the  Dome.  —The  Lord 
Mayor's  Coach. —  Westminster  Abbey.  — The  Gothic  Arcnitecture  a 
less  exquisite  Production  of  the  Human  Mind  than  the  Grecian.  —  Poets' 
Corner.  —  The  Mission  of  the  Poets.  —  The  Tombs  of  the  Kings.  —  The 
Monument  of  James  Watt.  —  A  humble  Colfee-house  and  its  Frequent- 
ers.—Thj  Woes  of  Genius  in  London. —  Old  110,  Thames-street.— 
The  Tower.— The  Thames  Tunnel. —  Longings  of  the  True  Londoner 
for  Rural  Life  and  the  Country;  their  Influence  on  Literature.  — The 
British  Museum  ;  its  splendid  Collection  of  Fossil  Remains.  —  Human 
Skeleton  of  Guadaloupe.  —  The  Egyptian  Room.  —  Domesticities  of  the. 
Ancient  Egyptians.  —  Cycle  of  Reproduction.  —  The  Mum:;  ies.    .     366 

CHAPTER    XIX. 

Harrow-on-the-Hill.  —  Descent  through  the  Formations  from  ti.e  Tertiary 
13  tlieCoai  Measures.  —Journey  of  a  Hundred  and  Twenty  I\IilesiVor//i- 
vards  id^nlicil,  geologic:?'.ly,  with  a  journey  of  a  Mile  and  a  Quarter 
Downwards.  —  English  very  unlike  Scottish  Landscape  in  its  Geologic 
Framework.  —  Bi'mingham  Fair. —  Credulity  of  the  Rural  English; 
striking  Contrast  which  they  furnish,  in  this  Respect,  to  their  Country- 
men oi'the  Kn  wing  Type.    -The  English  Grades  of  Intellectual  Chnr- 


TXIV  CONTENTS 

acter  of  Immense  Range  ;  more  in  Extremes  than  those  of  the  Scotch.  — 
Front  Rank  of  British  Intellect  in  which  there  stands  no  Scotchman  ; 
prohable  Cause. —A  Class  of  English,  on  the  other  Hand,  greatly  lower 
than  the  Scotch  ;  naturally  less  Curious  ;  acquire,  in  Consequence,  less 
of  the  Developing  Pabulum.  —  The  main  Cause  of  the  Difference  lo  be 
found,  however,  in  the  very  dissimilar  Religious  Character  of  the  two 
Countries.  —  The  Scot  naturally  less  independent  than  the  Englishman  ; 
strengthened,  however,  where  his  Character  most  needs  Strength,  hv 
his  Religion.  —  The  Independence  of  the  Englishman  subjected  at  the 
present  Time  to  two  distinct  Adverse  Influences,  —  the  Modern  Poor  Law 
and  iheTenant-at-will  System.  — Walsall.  —  Liverpool.  —  Sort  of  Lodg- 
ing-houses in  which  one  is  sure  to  meet  many  Dissenters.    .     .     .     389 


CHAPTER     XX, 

Dissent  a  Mid-formation  Organism  in  England.  —  Church  of  Englandism 
strong  among  the  Upper  and  Lower  Classes:  its  Peculiar  Principle  of 
Strength  among  the  Lower  ;  among  the  Upper.  —  The  Church  of  Eng- 
idnd  one  of  the  strongest  Institutions  of  the  Country.  —  Puseyism,  how- 
ever, a  Canker-worm  at  its  Root ;  Partial  Success  of  the  Principle.  — 
The  Type  of  English  Dissent  essentially  different  from  that  of  Scot- 
land ;  the  Causes  of  the  Difference  deep  in  the  Diverse  Character  of 
the  two  Peoples.  —  Insulated  Character  of  the  Englishman  productive 
of  Independency. —  Adhesive  Character  of  the  Scotch  productive  of 
Presbyterianism. — Attempts  to  legislate  for  the  Scotch  in  Chwiih 
Matters  on  an  English  Principle  always  unfortunate.  —  Erastianism 
essentially  a  different  thing  to  the  English  Churchman  from  what  it 
is  ♦o  the  Scot. —  Reason  why. — Independent  Scotch  Congregation  in 
a  Rura   Distrin. —  Rarely  well  based  ;  and  why. —  Ccnclusioa.  .    407 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


CHAPTER    1. 

Led  to  convert  an  intended  Voyage  to  Orkney  into  a  Journey  to  E  gland. 
-Objects  of  the  Journey. —Carter  Fell.— The  Border  Lino. —  Well 
for  England  it  should  have  been  so  doggedly  maintained  by  the  weakei 
Country.  — Olterburn.  —  The  Mountain  Limestone  in  England,  what  it 
is  not  in  Scotland,  a  true  Mountain  Limestone.  —  Scenery  changes  as 
we  enter  the  Coal  Measures.  —  Wretched  Weather.  —  Newcastle.  — 
Methodists. — Controversy  on  the  Atonement.  —  The  Popular  Mind  in 
Scotland  mainly  developed  by  its  Theology.  —  Newcastle  Museum  ;  rich 
in  its  Geology  and  its  Antiquities  ;  both  branches  of  one  subject.  — 
Geo/o^ic  History  of  the  Roman  Invasion.  —  Durhivin  Cathedral. — The 
Monuments  of  Nature  greatly  more  enduring  than  those  of  Man.  — C'ja- 
IhophyUum  Fungitcs.  —  The  Spotted  Tubers,  and  what  they  indicateJ. 
—  The  Destiny  of  a  Nation  involved  in  the  Growth  of  a  minute  F-^ungus. 

I  HAD  puqiosed  visiting  the  Orkneys,  and  s])ending  my  few 
weeks  of  autumn  leisure  in  exploring  the  Old  Red  Sandstone 
of  these  islands  along  the  noble  coast  sections  opened  up  by  the 
sea.  Mv  vacations  during  the  five  previous  seasons  had  been 
devoted  to  an  examination  of  the  fossiliferous  deposits  of  Scot- 
land. I  had  already  in  some  degree  acquainted  myself  with 
the  Palaeozoic  and  Secondary  formations  of  the  northern  hall 
of  the  kingdom  and  the  Hebrides.  One  vacation  more  would 
have  acquainted  me  with  those  of  Orkney  also,  and  crmpleted 
3 


26  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

my  survey  of  Scotland  to  the  north  of  the  Grainpkr.s;  and 
would  have  reckoned  at  least  half  my  self-imposed  task  at  an 
end.  When  laboring  professionally,  however,  during  the  pre- 
vious winter  and  spring,  I  had,  I  am  afraid,  sometimes  failed 
to  remember,  what  the  old  chivalric  knights  used  never  to  foi- 
get,  that  "man  is  but  of  mould;"  and  I  had,  in  consequence, 
subjected  the  "mould"  to  a  heavier  pressure  than,  from  us 
yielding  nature,  it  is  suited  to  bear.  And  now  that  play-time 
had  once  more  come  round,  1  found  I  had  scarce  health  and 
strength  enough  left  me  to  carry  me  in  quest  of  more.  I  could 
no  longer  undertake,  as  formerly,  long  journeys  a-foot  in  a  wild 
country,  nor  scramble,  with  sure  step,  and  head  that  never 
failed,  along  the  faces  of  tall  precipices  washed  by  the  sea. 
And  so,  for  the  time  at  least,  I  had  to  give  up  all  thought  of 
visiting  Orkney. 

"  I  will  cross  the  Border,"  I  said,  "and  get  into  England. 
1  know  the  humbler  Scotch  better  than  most  men,  —  I  have  at 
least  enjoyed  better  opportunities  of  knowing  them ;  but  the 
humbler  English  I  know  only  from  hearsay.  I  will  go  and 
live  among  them  for  a  few  weeks,  somewhere  in  the  midland 
districts.  I  shall  lodge  in  humble  cottages,  wear  a  humble 
dress,  and  see  what  is  to  be  seen  by  humble  men  only,  -  • 
society  without  its  mask.  I  shall  explore,  too,  for  myself,  the 
formations  wanting  in  the  geologic  scale  of  Scotland,  —  the 
Silurian,  the  Chalk,  and  the  Tertiary ;  and  so,  should  there  be 
future  years  in  store  for  me,  I  shall  be  enabled  to  resume  my 
survey  of  our  Scottish  deposits  with  a  more  practised  eye  than 
at  present,  and  with  more  extended  knowledge."  August  Avas 
dragging  on  to  its  close  through  a  moist  and  cloudy  atmo.v 
phere  ;  every  day  had  its  shower,  and  some  davs  half  a  dozen 
but  I  hoped  for  clearer  skies  and  fairer  weather  in  the  S''uth 
and  so.  taking  "v  seat  at  Edinburgh  on  the  top  of  the  New 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  27 

castle  co:\ch,  .  crossed  Carter  Fell  a  little  after  mid-da),  and 
found  myself,  for  the  first  time,  in  England.  The  sun  on  the 
Scottish  side  looked  down  clear  and  kindly  on  languia  fields 
surcharged  with  moisture,  that  exhibited  greener  and  yet 
greener  tints  as  we  ascended  from  the  lowland  districts  to  the 
uplands  ;  while  on  the  southern  side,  though  all  was  fair  in 
the  foreground,  a  thick  sullen  cloud  hung  low  over  the  distant 
prospect,  resembling  the  smoke  of  some  vast  city. 

And  this  was  the  famous  Border-line,  made  good  by  the 
weaker  against  the  stronger  nation,  —  at  how  vast  an  amount 
of  blood  and  suffering !  —  for  more  than  a  thousand  years.  Ij 
wore  to-day,  in  the  quiet  sunshine,  a  look  of  recluse  tran(]uillity, 
that  seemed  wholly  unconscious  of  the  past.  A  tumbling  sea 
of  dark-green  hills,  delicately  checkered  with  light  and  shadow, 
swelled  upwards  on  either  side  towards  the  line  of  boundary, 
like  the  billows  of  opposing  tide-ways,  that  rise  over  the  gen- 
eral level  where  the  currents  meet ;  and  passing  on  and  away 
from  wave-top  to  wave-top,  like  the  cork  baulk  of  a  fisherman's 
net  afloat  on  the  swell,  ran  the  separating  line.  But  all  was 
still  and  motionless,  as  in  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Baltic,  when 
the  winter  frost  has  set  in.  We  passed,  on  the  Scottish  side, 
a  group  of  stalwart  shepherds,  —  solid,  grave-featured  men, 
who  certainly  did  not  look  as  if  they  loved  fighting  for  its  own 
sake ;  and  on  the  English  side,  drove  by  a  few  stout,  ruddy 
hinds,  en_g*aged  in  driving  carts,  who  seemed  just  as  little  quar- 
relsome as  their  Scottish  neighbors.  War  must  he  intrinsically 
mischievous.  It  must  be  something  very  bad,  let  us  personify 
it  as  proudly  as  we  may,  that  could  have  set  on  these  useiui, 
peaceable  people,  —  cast  in  so  nearly  the  same  mould,  speaking 
the  same  tongue,  possessed  of  the  same  common  nature,  lov- 
able, doubtless,  in  some  points,  from  the  development  of  the 
same  genial  affections,  —  to  knock  one  another  on  the  head 


28  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

simji.y  because  the  one  half  of  them  had  first  seen  the  hght  on 
the  me  side  of  the  hill,  and  the  other  half  on  the  other  side. 
And  yet,  such  was  the  state  of  things  which  obtained  in  this 
ivild  district  for  many  hundred  years.  It  seems,  however, 
especially  well  for  England,  since  the  quarrel  began  at  all,  that 
it  should  Lave  been  so  doggedly  maintained  by  the  weaker 
people,  —  so  well  maintained  that  the  border  hamlet,  rouna 
which  they  struggled,  in  the  days  of  the  first  Edward,  as  a 
piece  of  doubtful  property,  is  a  piece  of  doubtful  property  still, 
and  has,  in  royal  proclamation  and  act  of  Parliament,  its  own 
(separate  clause  assigned  to  it,  as  the  "  town  called  Berwick- 
upon-Tweed."  It  is  quite  enough  for  the  English,  as  shown 
by  the  political  history  of  modern  times,  that  they  conquered 
Ireland ;  had  they  conquered  Scotland  also,  they  would  have 
oeen  ruined  utterly.  "  One  such  victory  more,  and  they  would 
have  been  undone."  Men  have  long  suspected  the  trade  of 
the  hero  to  be  a  bad  one ;  but  it  is  only  now  they  are  fairly 
Ipeginning  to  learn,  that  of  all  great  losses  and  misfortunes,  nis 
master  achievement —  the  taking  of  a  nation  —  is  the  greatest 
and  most  incurably  calamitous. 

The  line  of  boundary  forms  the  water-shed  in  this  part  of 
the  island :  the  streams  on  the  Scottish  side  trot  away  north- 
wards toward  the  valley  of  the  Tweed ;  while  on  the  English 
side  they  pursue  a  southerly  course,  and  are  included  in  the 
drainage  of  the  Tyne.  The  stream  which  runs  along  the  bare, 
open  valley  on  which  we  had  now  entered,  forms  one  of  the 
larger  tributaries  of  the  latter  river.  But  everything  seemefl 
as  Scottid'  as  ever,  —  the  people,  the  dwelling-houses,  the 
country,  I  could  scarce  realize  the  fact,  that  the  little  gray 
parish-church,  with  the  square  tower,  which  we  had  just  passed, 
was  a  church  in  which  the  curate  read  the  Prayer-book  every 
Sunday,  and  tha   I  had  left  behind  me  the  Scottish  law,  unde* 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  20 

which  I  had  been  living  all  life-long  till  now,  on  the  top  of  the 
hill.  I  had  proof,  however,  at  our  first  English  stage,  that 
such  was  actually  the  case.  "Is  all  right?"  asked  the  coach- 
man, of  a  ta  1,  lanky  Northumbrian,  who  had  busied  himself  in 
changing  the  horses.  "  Yez,  all  roit,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  re  it  as 
the  Church  of  England."  1  was,  it  was  evident,  on  Presbyte- 
rian ground  no  longer. 

We  passed,  as  the  country'  began  to  open,  a  spot  marked  by 
two  of  the  crossed  swords  of  our  more  elaborate  maps :  they 
lie  thick  on  both  sides  the  Border,  to  indicate  where  the  old 
battle-fields  were  stricken ;  and  the  crossed  swords  of  this 
especial  locality  are  celebrated  in  chronicle  and  song.  A  rude, 
straggling  village  runs  for  some  one  or  two  hundred  yards 
along  both  sides  of  the  road.  On  the  left  there  is  a  group  of 
tall  trees,  elevated  on  a  ridge,  which  they  conceal ;  and  a  bare, 
undulating,  somewhat  wild  country,  spreads  around.  All  is 
quiet  and  solitary;  and  no  scathe  on  the  landscape  corresponds 
with  the  crossed  swords  on  the  map.  There  were  a  few  chil- 
dren at  play,  as  we  passed,  in  front  of  one  of  the  cottages,  and 
two  old  men  sauntering  along  the  road.  And  such  now  is 
Otterburn,  —  a  name  I  had  never  associated  before,  save  with 
the  two  noble  ditties  of  Chevy  Chase,  the  magnificent  narrative 
of  Froissart,  and  the  common  subject  of  both  ballads  and  narra- 
tive, however  various  their  descriptions  of  it,  —  that  one  sterp 
night's  slaughter,  four  hundred  years  ago, 

"  Wlien  tlie  dead  Douglas  won  the  field." 

It  was  well  for  the  poor  victors  they  had  a  Froissart  to  cele- 
bjate  'hem.  For  though  it  was  the  Scotch  who  gained  the 
battle,  it  was  the  English  who  had  the  writing  of  the  songs, 
and  had  not  the  victors  found  so  impartial  a  chronicler  in  the 
^eneroi  s  Frenchman,  the  two  songs,  each  a  model  in  its  owr 
1* 


M)  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

department,  would  have  proved  greatly  an  overmatch  for  thera 
in  the  end. 

The  wilder  tracts  of  Northumberland  are  composevl  of  the 
Millstone  Grit  and  Mountain  Limestone;  and  never  before  had 
I  seen  this  latter  deposit  developed  in  a  style  that  so  bears  out 
the  appropriateness  of  its  name.  It  is  in  Northumberland, 
what  it  is  raro  y  or  never  in  Scotland,  a  true  Mountain  Lime- 
stone, that  rises  into  tall  hills,  and  sinks  into  deep  valleys,  and 
spreads  laterally  over  a  vast  extent  of  area.  The  ocean  of  the 
Carboniferous  era  in  England  must  have  been  greatly  more 
persistent  and  extended  than  the  ocean  whose  deposits  form 
t-ie  base  of  the  Coal  Measures  in  the  sister  country:  it  appears 
to  have  lain  further  from  the  contemporary  land,  and  to  have 
been  much  less  the  subject  of  alternate  upheavals  and  depres- 
«!ions.  We  were  several  hours  in  driving  over  the  formation. 
4s  we  entered  upon  the  true  Coal  Measures,  the  face  of  the 
country  at  once  altered  :  the  wild,  open,  undulating  surface 
sunk  into  a  plain,  laid  out,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  into 
fields  closely  reticulated  with  hedge-rous;  the  farm-houses 
nnd  gentlemen's  seats  thickened  as  we  advanced;  and  Eng- 
land assumed  its  proper  character.  With  a  change  of  scenery, 
however,  we  experienced  a  change  of  weather.  We  had  en- 
tered into  the  cloud  that  seemed  so  threatening  in  the  distance 
from  the  top  of  Carter  Fell ;  and  a  thick,  soaking  rain,  with- 
out wind,  accompanied  by  a  lazy  fog  that  lay  scattered  along 
the  fields  and  woods  in  detached  wreaths  of  gray,  saddened  the 
landscape.  As  we  drove  on,  we  could  see  the  dense  smoke  of 
the  pit-engines  forming  a  new  feature  in  the  prospect ;  the  tall 
chimneys  of  Newcastle,  that  seemed  so  many  soot-black  obe- 
lisks, half  lost  in  the  turbid  atmosphere,  came  next  in  view , 
and  then,  just  as  the  evening  was  falling  wet  and  cheerless,  we 
?nt8ed  the  town,  thsjugh  muddy  str'^'>ts,  and  along  rang-es  of 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  31 

melancholy-locking  houses,  dropping  from  all  their  eaves,  and 
darkened  by  the  continuous  rain  of  weeks.  I  was  directed  by 
(he  coachman  to  by  far  the  most  splendid  temperance  coffee- 
house I  had  ever  seen  ;  but  it  seemed  too  fine  a  lodging-house 
lor  harboring  the  more  characteristic  English,  and  I  had  not 
crossed  the  Border  to  see  cosmopolites  ;  and  so,  turning  away 
from  the  door,  I  succeeded  in  finding  for  myself  a  humbler, 
but  still  very  respectable  house,  in  a  different  part  of  the  town. 
There  were  several  guests  in  the  public  room  :  some  two  or 
three  smart  commercial  gentlemen  from  the  midland  trading 
towns ;  two  young  Sheffield  mechanics,  evidently  of  the  re- 
spectable class,  who  earn  high  wages  and  take  care  of  them  ; 
and  a  farmer  or  two  from  the  country.  In  the  course  of  the 
evening  we  had  a  good  deal  of  conversation,  and  some  contro- 
versy. The  mechanics  were  Methodists,  who  had  availed 
themselves  of  a  few  days'  leisure  to  see  the  north  country,  but 
more  especially,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  to  be  present  at  a  dis- 
cussion on  controverted  points  of  theology,  which  was  to  take 
place  in  Newcastle  on  the  following  evening,  between  a  pro- 
digiously clever  preacher  of  the  New  Comiection,  very  unsound 
in  his  creed,  of  whom  I  had  never  heard  before,  and  a  more 
orthodox  preacher  of  the  same  body,  profound  in  his  theology, 
of  whom  I  had  heard  just  as  little.  From  the  peculiar  empha- 
sis placed  by  the  two  lads  on  the  word  orthodox,  I  inferred  that 
neither  of  them  deemed  orthodoxy  so  intellectual  a  thing  as 
the  want  of  it ;  and  I  ultimately  discovered  that  they  were 
partisans  of  the  clever  preacher.  One  of  the  two  seemed 
anxious  to  provoke  a  controversy  on  his  favorite  points  ;  but 
the  commercial  men,  who  appeared  rather  amused  to  hear  so 
much  about  religion,  avoided  all  definite  statement;  and  the 
men  from  the  country  said  nothing.  A  person  in  black  en- 
tered the  nom,  —  not  a  preacher  apparently,  but.  had  I  met 


32  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

him  in  Scotland  I  would  have  set  him  down  for  at  least  an 
elder ;  and  the  youni^  mechanics  were  gratified. 

The  man  in  black  was,  I  found,  a  Calvinist,  —  not,  however, 
of  the  most  profound  type  ,  the  Methodists  were  wild  non- 
descripts in  their  theology,  more  Socinian  than  aught  else,  and 
yet  not  consistently  Socinian  neither.  A  Scottish  religious 
controversy  of  the  present  time  regards  the  nature  and  extent 
of  the  atonement ;  the  two  Wesleyans  challenged,  I  found, 
*.he  very  existence  of  the  doctrine.  There  was  really  no  such 
thing  as  an  atonement,  they  said  ;  the  atonement  was  a  mere 
orthodox  view  taken  by  the  Old  Connection.  The  Calvinist 
referred  to  the  ordinary  evidences  to  prove  it  something  more; 
and  so  the  controversy  went  on,  \'n{\\  some  share  of  perverted 
ingenuity  on  the  one  side,  and  a  considerable  acquaintance 
with  Scripture  doctrine  on  the  other.  A  tall,  respectable-look- 
ing man,  with  the  freshness  of  a  country  life  palpable  about 
him,  had  come  in  shortly  after  the  commencement  of  the  dis- 
cussion, and  took  evidently  some  interest  in  it.  He  turned 
from  speaker  to  speaker,  and  seemed  employed  in  weighing 
the  statements  on  both  sides.  At  length  he  struck  in,  taking 
part  against  the  Calvinist.  "Can  it  really  be  held,"  he  said, 
"that  the  all-powerful  God  —  the  Being  who  has  no  limits  to 
his  power  —  could  not  forgive  sin  without  an  atonement?  Tliat 
would  be  limiting  his  illimitable  power  with  a  vengeance!" 
The  remark  would  scarcely  have  arrested  a  theologic  contro- 
versy on  the  same  nice  point  in  Scotland,  —  certainly  not  among 
the  class  of  peasant  controversialists  so  unwisely  satirized  by 
Burns,  nor  yet  among  the  class  who,  in  our  ovvn  times,  have 
taken  so  deep  an  interest  in  the  Church  question  ;  but  the 
English  Calvinist  seemed  unfurnished  with  a  reply. 

I  WIS  curious  to  see  how  the  metaphysics  of  our  Scotch 
i^alviiiism  would  tell  on  such  an  audience  ;  and  took  up  the 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPj.  E.  33 

subject  much  in  the  way  it  might  be  taken  up  in  s.  me  country 
chuich-yard,  ere  the  congregation  had  fully  gathered,  by  soni« 
of  the  "grave-livers"  of  the  parish,  or  as  it  might  be  discussed 
in  the  more  northern  localities  of  the  kingdom,  at  some  evening 
mee.tmg  of  "  the  men."  I  attempted  showing,  step  by  step, 
that  God  did  not  give  to  himself  his  own  nature,  nor  any  part 
of  it ;  that  it  exist?  as  it  is,  as  independently  of  his  will  as  our 
human  nature  exi>.ts  as  it  is  independently  of  ours ;  that  his 
moral  nature,  like  his  nature  in  general,  is  underived,  unalter- 
able, eternal ;  and  that  it  is  this  underived  moral  nature  of  the 
Godhead  which  forms  the  absolute  law  of  his  conduct  in  all 
his  dealings  with  his  moral  agents.  "  Y.ou  are,  I  daresay, 
right,"  said  the  countryman  ;  "  but  how  does  all  this  bear  on 
the  doctrine  of  the  atonoHient  ? " 

"Very  directly  on  your  remark  respecting  it,"  I  replied. 
"  It  shows  us  that  the  will  and  power  of  God,  in  dealing  with 
the  sins  of  his  accountable  creature,  man,  cannot,  if  we  may 
so  speak,  be  arbitrary,  unregulated  power  and  will,  but  must 
spring,  of  necessity,  out  of  his  underived  moral  nature.  If  it 
be  according  to  this  moral  nature,  which  constitutes  the  gov- 
erning law  of  Deity,  —  the  law  which  controls  Deity,  —  that 
without  the  '  shedding  of  blood  there  can  be  no  remission,'  then 
blood  must  be  shed,  or  remission  cannot  be  obtained ;  atone- 
ment for  sin  there  must  be.  If,  on  the  contrary,  there  can  be 
remission  without  the  shedding  of  blood,  we  may  be  infallibly 
ceitain  the  unnecessary  blood  will  not  be  denianded,  noi  the 
superfluous  atonement  required.  To  believe  otherwise  would 
be  to  believe  that  God  deals  with  his  moral  agent,  man,  on 
principles  that  do  not  spring  out  of  his  own  moral  nature,  but 
are  mere  arbitrary  results  of  an  unregulated  will." — "But  are 
yon  not  leaving  the  question,  after  all,  just  where  you  found 
It?"  ask3d  the  countryman.  —  "Not  quite,"  I  replied:    "ol 


34  FIRST     IMPRESSIONS    OF 

God's  moral  nature,  or  the  conduct  which  spiings  out  of  it,  we 
can  but  know  what  God  hns  been  pleased  to  tell  us:  the  fact 
of  the  atonement  can  be  determined  but  by  revelation  ;  and 
I  believe,  with  the  gentleman  opposite,  that  revelation  deter- 
mines it  very  conclusively.  But  if  fact  it  be,  then  must  we 
hold  that  it  is  a  fact  which  springs  directly  out  of  that  unde- 
rived  moral  nature  of  God  which  constitutes  the  governing 
law  of  his  power  and  will ;  and  that,  his  nature  being  what  it 
is,  the  antagonist  fact  of  remission  without  atonement  is  in 
reality  an  impossibility.  Your  appeal  in  the  question  lay  to 
the  omnipotence  of  God  ;  it  is  something  to  know  that  in  that 
direction  there  cap  lie  no  appeaL  Mark  how  strongly  your 
own  great  poet  brings  out  this  truth.  In  his  statement  of  the 
doctrine  of  the  atonement,  —  a  simple  digest  of  the  Scriptural 
statement,  —  all  is  made  to  hinge  on  the  important  fact,  that 
God  having  once  willed  the  salvation  of  men,  an  atonement 
became  as  essentially  necessary  to  Him,  in  order  that  the  moral 
nature  which  He  did  not  give  himself  might  not  be  violated, 
as  to  the  lapsed  race,  who  might  recognize  in  it  their  sole  hope 
of  restoration  and  recovery.     Man,  says  the  poet, 

•  To  expiate  his  treason  hath  nought  lefti, 
But  to  destruction,  sacred  and  devote, 
He,  witli  his  whole  posterity,  must  die  : 
Die  he,  or  justice  must ;  unless  for  him 
Some  other,  able,  and  as  willing,  pay 
The  rigid  satisfaction,  death  for  death.'  " 

The  countryman  was  silent.  "  You  Scotch  are  a  strange 
people,"  said  one  of  the  commercial  gentlemen.  "  When  I 
was  in  Scotland  two  years  ago,  I  could  hear  of  scarce  anything 
among  you  but  your  Church  question.  What  good  does  ah 
your  theology  do  you  ?  " — "  Independently  altogether  of  relig- 
ious o)ns  dentious,"  I  rep'ied,  "  it   has  done  for  our  people 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOl'LE.  35 

What  all  your  Societies  for  the  Diffusio  i  of  Useful  Knowkilge, 
iind  all  your  Penny  and  Saturday  Magazines,  will  never  do 
lor  yours ;  it  has  awakened  their  intellects,  and  taught  them 
how  to  think.  The  development  of  the  popular  mind  in  Scot- 
land is  a  result  of  its  theology." 

The  morning  rose  quite  as  gloomily  as  the  evening  haa 
fallen  :  the  mist  cloud  still  rested  lazily  over  the  town  ;  the 
rain  dashed  incessantly  from  the  eaves,  and  streamed  along  tho 
pavement.  It  was  miserable  weather  for  an  invalid  in  quest 
of  health  ;  but  I  had  just  to  make  the  best  I  could  of  the  cir- 
cumstances, by  scraping  acquaintance  with  the  guests  in  the 
travellers'  room,  and  beating  with  them  over  all  manner  of 
topics,  until  mid-day,  when  I  sallied  out,  under  cover  of  an 
umbrella,  to  see  the  town  museum.  I  found  it  well  suited  to 
repay  the  trouble  of  a  visit ;  and  such  is  the  liberality  of  the 
Newcastle  people,  that  it  cost  me  no  more.  It  is  superior, 
both  in  the  extent  and  arrangement  of  its  geologic  department, 
to  any  of  our  Scotch  collections  with  which  I  am  acquainted  ; 
and  its  Anglo-Roman  antiquities,  from  the  proximity  of  the 
place  to  the  wall  of  Hadrian,  are  greatly  more  numerous  than 
in  any  other  museum  I  ever  saw,  —  filling,  of  themselves,  an 
entire  gallery.  As  I  passed,  in  the  geologic  apartment,  from 
the  older  Silurian  to  the  newer  Tertiary,  and  then  on  from  the 
newer  Tertiary  to  the  votive  tablets,  sacrificial  altars,  and 
sepulchral  memorials  of  the  Anglo-Roman  gallery,  1  coald  not 
nelp  regarding  them  as  all  belonging  to  one  department.  The 
antiquities  piece  on  in  natural  sequence  to  the  geology  ;  and 
It  seems  but  rational  to  indulgr  in  the  same  sort  of  reasonings 
regarding  them.  They  are  the  fossils  of  an  extinct  order  o. 
things,  newer  than  the  Tertiary, —  of  an  extinct  race,  —  of  ar. 
extinct  religion,  —  of  a  state  of  society  and  a  class  of  enter- 
prises which  the  world  saw  once,  but  which  it  will  never  see 


36  FTRST     IMPREisSIONS     OF 

again.  And  with  lut  little  assistance  from  the  direct  testimony 
of  history,  one  has  to  grope  one's  way  along  this  coniparatively 
modern  formation,  guided  chiefly,  as  in  the  more  ancient  de« 
posits,  by  the  clue  of  circumstantial  evidence.  In  at  least  its 
leading  features,  however,  the  story  embodied  is  remarkably 
clear.  First,  we  have  evidence  that  in  those  remote  times 
when  the  northern  half  of  the  island  had  just  become  a  home 
of  men,  the  land  was  forest-covered,  like  the  woody  regions  of 
N^orth  America,  and  that  its  inhabitants  were  rude  savages 
unacquainted  with  the  metals,  but  possessed  of  a  few  curious 
irts  which  an  after  age  forgot,  —  not  devoid  of  a  religion  which 
It  least  indicated  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  —  and  mnch  given 
to  war.  The  extensive  morass,  in  which  huge  trunks  lie  thick 
und  frequent, —  the  stone  battle-axe,  —  the  flint  arrow-head, — 
the  Druidic  circle,  —  the  vitrified  fort,  —  the  Picts'  house, — 
the  canoe  hollowed  out  of  a  single  log,  —  are  all  fossils  of  this 
early  period.  Then  come  the  memorials  of  an  after  formation. 
This  wild  country  is  invaded  by  a  much  more  civilized  race 
han  the  one  by  which  it  is  inhabited ;  we  find  distinct  marks 
)f  their  lines  of  march,  —  of  the  forests  which,  they  cut  down. 
—  of  the  encampments  in  which  they  intrenched  themselves, — 
of  the  battle-fields  in  which  they  were  met  in  fight  by  the 
natives.  And  they,  too,  had  their  religion.  More  than  half 
the  remains  which  testify  to  their  progress  cons'st  of  sacrificial 
altars,  and  votive  tablets  dedicated  to  the  gods.  The  narrative 
goes  on  :  another  class  of  remains  show  us  that  a  portion  of  the 
country  was  conquered  by  ihe  civilized  race.  We  find  the  re- 
mains of  tesselated  pavements,  baths,  public  roads,  the  founda- 
tions of  houses  and  temples,  accumulations  of  broken  pottery, 
and  hoards  of  coin.  Then  comes  another  important  clause  in  the 
story;  we  ascertain  that  the  civilized  people  failed  to  conquer 
the  whole  of  the  nortb  em  country ;  and  that,  in  order  to  pre« 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  37 

ser  e  whiit  they  had  conquered,  they  were  content  to  construct, 
at  an  immense  expense  cf  labor,  a  long  chain  of  forts,  con- 
nected by  a  strong  wall  flanked  with  towers.  Had  it  been 
easier  to  conquer  the  rest  of  the  country  than  to  build  the  wall, 
the  wall  would  not  have  been  built.  We  learn  further,  how- 
ever, that  the  laboriously-built  wall  served  its  purpose  but  for 
a  time  :  the  wild  people  beyond  at  length  broke  over  it ;  and 
the  civilized  invader,  wearied  out  by  their  persevering  assaults, 
which,  though  repelled  to-day,  had  again  to  be  repelled  to-mor- 
row, at  length  left  their  country  to  them  entire,  and  retreating 
beyond  its  furthest  limits,  built  for  his  protection  a  second  wall. 
Such  is  the  history  of  this  bygone  series  of  occurrences,  as 
written,  if  one  may  so  speak,  in  the  various  fossils  of  the  form- 
ation. The  antiquities  of  a  museum  should  always  piece  on 
to  its  geologic  collection."^ 

*  Some  of  the  operations  of  the  Romans  in  Scotland  have,  like  the 
catastrophes  of  the  old  geologic  periods,  left  permanent  marks  on  the  face 
of  the  country.  It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  not  a  few  of  our  soutliern  Scot- 
tish mosses  owe  their  origin  to  the  Roman  invasion.  Of  their  lower  tiers 
of  trees,  —  those  which  constituted  the  nucleus  of  the  peaty  formation, — 
many  have  been  found  still  bearing  the  marks  of  the  Roman  hatchet,  — 
a  thin-edged  tool,  somewhat  like  that  of  the  American  woodsman,  but  still 
narrower.  In  some  instances  the  axe-head,  sorely  wasted,  has  been 
detected  still  sticking  in  the  buried  stump,  whicli  is  generally  found  to 
have  been  cut  several  feet  over  the  soil,  just  where  the  tool  might  be  plied 
with  most  etlect;  and  in  many,  Roman  utensils  and  coins  have  been  dis- 
covered, where  tliey  had  been  hastily  laid  down  by  the  soldiery  among  the 
tangled  brushwood,  and  forthwith  covered  up  and  lost.  Ronnie,  in  hia 
"  Essay  on  Peat  Moss,"  furnishes  an  interesting  list  of  these  curiosities, 
that  tell  so  significant  a  story.  "In  Ponsil  Moss,  near  Glasgow,"  he 
says,  "  a  leather  bag,  containing  about  two  hundred  silver  coins  of  Rome, 
was  found-  in  I)un<laff  Moor,  a  number  of  similar  coins  were  found  about 
forty  years  ago;  in  Annan  Moss,  near  the  Roman  Causeway,  an  ornament 
of  pure  gold  was  discovered;  a  Roman  camp-kettle  was  found,  eight  feet 
deep,  under  a  moss,  on  the  estate  of  Oclitertyre;  in  Flanders  Moss  a  sim- 
ilar utensil  was  found;   a  Roman  jug  was  found  in  Locker  Moss,  Dum 

4 


38  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

The  weather  was  still  wretchedly  bad  ;  but  I  got  iipon  the 
Great  Southern  Railway,  and  passed  on  to  Durham,  expecting 
to  see,  in  the  city  of  a  bishop,  a  quiet  English  town  ^jf  the  true 
ancient  type.  And  so  I  would  have  done,  as  the  close-piled 
tenements  of  antique  brick- work,  with  their  secluded  old-fash- 
ioned courts  and  tall  fantastic  gables,  testified  in  detail,  had 
the  circumstances  been  more  favorable ;  but  the  mist-cloud 
hung  low,  and  I  could  see  little  else  than  dropping  eaves,  dark 
ened  walls,  and  streaming  pavements.  The  river  which  sweeps 
past  the  town  was  big  in  flood.  I  crossed  along  the  bridge ; 
saw  beyond,  a  half-drowned  country,  rich  in  fields  and  woods, 
and  varied  by  the  reaches  of  the  stream  ;  and  caught  between 
me  and  the  sky,  when  the  fog  rose,  the  outline  of  the  town  on 
its  bold  ridge,  with  its  stately  cathedral  elevated  highest,  as 
first  in  place,  and  its  grotesque  piles  of  brick  ranging  adown 
the  slope  in  picturesque  groups,  continuous  yet  distinct.  1 
next  visited  the  cathedral.  The  gloomy  day  was  darkening 
into  still  gloomier  evening,  and  I  found  the  huge  pile  standing 
up  amid  the  descending  torrents  in  its  ancient  grave-yard,  like 
«!ome  mass  of  fretted  rock-work  enveloped  in  the  play  of  a 
fountain.  The  great  door  lay  open,  but  I  could  see  little  else 
within  than  the  ranges  of  antique  columns,  curiously  moulded, 

friesshire;  a  pot  and  decanter,  of  Roman  co}>per,  was  found  in  a  moss  in 
Kirkmichael  parish  in  the  same  count}';  and  two  vessels,  of  Roman 
bronze,  in  the  jNloss  of  Glanderliill,  in  Strathaven."  And  thus  the  list 
runs  on;  It  is  hot  difficult  to  conceive  how,  in  the  circvimstances,  mossea 
came  to  be  formed.  The  felled  wood  was  left  to  rot  on  the  surface;  small 
streams  were  choked  up  in  the  levels;  pools  formed  in  the  hollows;  the 
soil  beneath,  shut  up  from  the  light  and  the  air,  became  unfitted  to  pro- 
duce its  former  vegetation:  but  a  new  order  of  plants,  —  the  thick  water- 
mosses,  —  began  to  spring  up ;  one  generation  budded  and  decayed  over 
the  ruins  of  another;  and  what  ha-d  been  an  overturned  forest,  became,  in 
r.lie  course  of  years,  a  deep  morass,  —  an  unsightly  but  permanent  monu- 
tuent  of  th^  foi'midable  invader. 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  39 

Jind  of  girth  enormous,  that  separate  the  aisles  from  the  nave  ; 
and  hah  lOSt  in  the  blackness,  they  served  to  remind  me  thi? 
evening  of  the  shadowy,  gigantic  colonnades  of  Martin.  Then 
Saxon  strength  wore,  amid  the  vagueness  of  the  gloom,  an  air 
of  Babylonish  magnificence. 

The  rain  was  dashing  amid  the  tombstones  outside.  One 
antique  slab  of  blue  limestone  beside  the  pathway  had  been 
fretted  many  centuries  ago  into  the  lude  semblance  of  a  human 
figure ;  but  the  compact  mass,  unfaithful  to  its  charge,  had 
resigned  all  save  the  general  outline ;  the  face  was  worn 
smooth,  and  only  a  few  nearly  obliterated  ridges  remained,  to 
indicate  the  foldings  of  the  robe.  It  served  to  show,  in  a 
manner  sufficiently  striking,  how  much  more  indelibly  nature 
inscribes  her  monuments  of  the  dead  than  art.  The  limestone 
slab  had  existed  as  a  churchyard  monument  for  perhaps  a 
thousand  years ;  but  the  story  which  it  had  been  sculptured  to 
tell  had  been  long  since  told  for  the  last  time  ;  and  whether  it 
had  marked  out  the  burial-place  of  priest  or  of  layman,  or  what 
he  had  been  or  done,  no  one  could  now  determine.  But  the 
story  of  an  immensely  earlier  sepulture,  —  earlier,  mayhap,  by 
thrice  as  many  tweh-^emonths  as  the  thousand  years  contained 
days,  —  it  continued  to  tell  most  distinctly.  It  told  that  when 
it  had  existed  as  a  calcareous  mud  deep  in  the  carboniferous 
ocean,  a  species  of  curious  zoophyte,  long  afterwards  termed 
Cyathophyllum  fungites^  were  living  and  dying  by  myriads, 
and  it  now  exhibited  on  its  surfact  several  dozens  of  them,  rut 
open  at  every  possible  angle,  and  presenting  every  variety  of 
section,  as  if  to  show  what  sort  of  creatures  they  had  been.  The 
glossy  wet  served  as  a  varnish ;  and  1  could  see  that  not  only 
had  those  laiger  plates  of  the  skeletons  that  radiate  outwards 
from  the  centre  been  preserved,  but  even  the  microscopic  retic* 
'jhtion^  0.   the   cross  partitioning.     Never  w?.s  there   ancient 


40  FIRST    IMPRESSFOXS    OF 

inscription  held  in  such  faithful  keeping  by  the  founc'er* 
bronze  or  the  sculptor's  marble  ;  and  never  was  there  epitaph  of 
human  composition  so  scrupulously  just  to  the  real  character 
of  the  dead. 

I  found  three  guests  in  the  coffee-house  in  which  I  lodged, — 
a  farmer  and  his  two  sons :  the  farmer  still  in  vigorous  middle 
life ;  the  sons  robust  and  tall ;  all  of  them  fine  specimens  of 
the  ruddy,  well-built,  square-shouldered  Englishman.  They 
had  been  travelling  by  the  raihvay,  and  were  now  on  their 
return  to  their  farm,  which  lay  little  more  than  two  hours'  walk 
away ;  but  so  bad  was  the  evening,  that  they  had  deemed  it 
«.dvisable  to  take  beds  for  the  night  in  Durham.  They  had 
evidently  a  stake  in  the  state  of  the  weather;  and  as  the  rain 
ever  and  anon  pattered  against  the  panes,  as  if  on  the  eve  of 
breaking  them,  some  one  or  other  of  the  three  would  rise  to  the 
window,  and  look  moodily  out  into  the  storm.  "  God  help  us  ! " 
I  heard  the  old  farmer  ejaculate,  as  the  rising  wind  shook  the 
casement;  "we  shall  have  no  harvest  at  all."  They  had  had 
rain,  I  learned,  in  this  locality,  with  but  partial  intermissions, 
for  the  greater  part  of  six  weeks,  and  the  crops  lay  rotting  on 
the  ground.  In  the  potatoes  served  at  table  I  marked  a  pecu- 
liar appearance  :  they  were  freckled  over  by  minute  circulai 
spots,  that  bore  a  ferruginous  tinge,  somewhat  resembling  the 
specks  on  iron-shot  sandstone,  and  they  ate  as  if  but  partially 
boiled.  I  asked  the  farmer  whether  the  affection  was  a  com- 
mon one  in  that  part  of  the  country.  "Not  at  all,"  was  llie 
reply :  "  we  never  saw  it  before ;  but  it  threatens  this  year  to 
lestroy  our  potatoes.  The  half  of  mine  it  has  spoiled  already, 
and  it  spreads  among  them  every  day."  It  does  not  seem 
natural  to  the  species  to  associate  mighty  consequences  with 
phenomena  that  wear  a  very  humble  aspect.  The  teachings  of 
"xporifnce  are  essentially  necessary  to  show  us  that  th''  seeds  of 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


41 


great  events  may  be  little  things  in  themselves ;  and  so  I  could 
not  see  how  important  a  part  these  minute  iron-tinted  specks  — 
the  work  of  a  microscopic  fungus  —  were  to  enact  in  British 
.listory.  The  old  soothsayers  professed  to  read  the  destinies 
of  the  future  in  very  unlikely  pages,  —  in  the  meteoric  appear- 
\nces  of  the  heavens,  and  in  the  stars,  —  in  the  flight  and 
chiiping  of  birds,  —  in  the  entrails  of  animals,  —  in  many  other 
suange  characters  besides ;  and  in  the  remoter  districts  of  my 
own  country  I  have  seen  a  half-sportive  superstition  employed 
in  deciphering  characters  quite  as  unlikely  as  those  of  the  old 
augurs, —  in  the  burning  of  a  brace  of  hazel-nuts, —  in  the 
pulling  of  a  few  oaten  stalks,  —  in  the  grounds  of  a  tea-cup,  — 
above  all,  in  the  Hallowe'en  egg,  in  which,  in  a  diflferent  sense 
from  that  embodied  in  the  allegory  of  Cowley, 

"  Tlie  curious  eye, 
Through  the  firm  sliell  and  the  thick  white  may  spy 

Years  to  come  a-forming  lie, 
Close  in  their  sacred  secundinc  asleep." 

Rut  who  could  have  ever  thought  of  divining  over  the  spotted 
tubers  ?  or  who  so  shrewd  as  to  have  seen  in  the  groupmg  of 
their  iron-shot  specks  Lord  John  Russell's  renunciation  of  the 
fixed  duty, —  the  conversion  to  free-trade  principles  of  Sir 
Robert  Peel  and  his  Conservative  ministry,  —  the  breaking  up 
into  sections  of  the  old  Protectionist  party,  —  and,  in  the  remote 
distance,  the  abolition  in  Scotland  of  the  law  of  entail,  and  in 
England  the  ultimate  abandonment,  mayhap,  of  the  depressing 
tenant-at-will  system  ?  If  one  could  have  read  them  aright, 
never  did  the  flight  of  bird  or  the  embowelment  of  beast  indi- 
cate so  wonderful  a  story  as  these  same  iron-shot  tubers. 


42  FIRST    IMPRESSIOXS    OF 


CHAPTER     II 

'leather  sti  1  miserably  bad;  suited  to  betray  ue  frequent  Poverty  A 
English  Landscape.  —  Gloomy  Prospects  of  the  Agricultur-sl.  —  Corn- 
Law  League. —  York  ;  a  true  Sacerdotal  City.  —  Cathedral  ;  noble  Eli- 
terit  r  ;  Interior  not  less  impressive  ;  Cougreve's  sublime  Description.  — 
Unpardonable  Solecism.  —  Procession.  —  Dean  Cockl  urn  ;  Crusade 
against  the  Geologists.  —  Cathedral  Service  unworthy  of  the  Cathedral. 
--Walk  on  the  City  Ramparts.  —  Flat  Fertility  of  the  surrounding 
Country.  —  The  more  interesting  Passages  in  the  History  of  York  sup- 
plied by  the  Makers.  —  Robinson  Crusoe.  — Jeanie  Deans.  —  Trial  of 
Eugene  Aram.  —  Aram's  real  Character  widely  different  from  that  drawn 
by  the  Novelist. 

Rain,  rain !  —  another  morning  in  England,  and  still  no 
improvement  in  the  weatiier.  The  air,  if  there  was  any  change 
at  all,  felt  rather  more  chill  and  bleak  than  on  the  previous 
evening ;  and  the  shower,  in  its  paroxysms,  seemed  to  beat  still 
heavier  on  the  panes.  I  v/as  in  no  mood  to  lay  myself  up  in  a 
dull  inn,  like  Washington  Irving's  stout  gentleman,  and  so  took 
the  train  for  York,  in  the  hope  of  getting  from  under  the  cloud 
somewhere  on  its  southern  side,  ere  I  at  least  reached  the 
British  Channel.  Never  surely  was  the  north  of  England  seen 
more  thoroughly  in  dishabille.  The  dark  woods  and  thick-set 
hedgerows  looked  blue  and  dim  through  the  haze,  like  the 
mimic  woodlands  of  a  half-finished  drawing  in  gray  chalk 
and,  instead  of  cheering,  added  but  to  the  gloom  of  the  land- 
scape. They  seemed  to  act  the  part  of  mere  sponges,  that  firai 
condensed  and  then  retained  the  moisture, — that  became  soaked 
m  the  shower,  and  then,  when  it  had  passed,  continued  dis- 
pensing their  droppings  on  the  rotting  sward  beneath,  unti,' 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  43 

another  sho  ver  came.  The  character  of  the  wtaiher  was  of  a 
kind  suited  to  betray  the  frequent  poverty  of  English  land- 
scape. When  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  sun  bright,  even  the 
smallest  and  tamest  patches  of  country  have  their  charms: 
there  is  beauty  in  even  a  hollow  willow  pollard  fluttering  its 
silvery  leaves  over  its  patch  of  meadow-sedges  against  the  deep 
blue  of  the  heavens;  but  in  the  dull  haze  and* homogeneous 
light,  that  was  but  light  and  shadow  muddled  into  a  neutral 
f,int  of  gray,  one  could  not  now  and  then  avoid  remarking  that 
ihe  entire  prospect  consisted  of  but  one  field  and  two  hedge- 
rows. 

As  we  advanced,  appearances  did  not  improve.  The  wheaten 
fields  exhibited,  for  their  usual  golden  tint  slightly  umbered,  an 
omuious  tinge  of  earthy  brown  ;  the  sullen  rivers  had  risen  high 
over  the  meadows ;  and  rotting  hay-ricks  stood  up  like  islands 
amid  the  water.  At  one  place  in  the  line  the  train  had  to  drag 
its  weary  length  in  foam  and  spray,  up  to  the  wheel-axles, 
through  the  overflowings  of  a  neighboring  canal.  The  sudden 
shower  came  ever  and  anon  beating  against  the  carriage  win- 
dows, obscuring  yet  more  the  gloomy  landscape  without;  and 
the  passengers  were  fain  to  shut  close  every  opening,  and  to 
draw  their  great-coats  and  wrappers  tightly  around  them,  as 
if  they  had  been  journeying,  not  in  the  month  of  August, 
scarcely  a  fortnight  after  the  close  of  the  dog-days,  but  at 
Christmas.  I  heard  among  the  passengers  a  few  semi-political 
remarks,  suggested  by  the  darkening  prospects  of  the  agricul- 
turist. The  Anti-Corn-Law  League,  with  all  its  formidable 
equipments,  had  la.n  for  years,  as  if  becalmed  in  its  voyage,  a 
water-logged  hulk,  that  failed  to  press  on  towards  its  port  of 
destination.  One  good  harvest  after  another  had,  as  sailors 
say,  taken  the  wind  out  of  its  sails ;  and  now  here  evidently 
was  the'e  a  strong  gale  arising  full  in  its  poop.     It  was  palpa 


^4  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

Wy  jn  tha  eve  of  making  great  way  in  its  course ;  and  the  few 
politic il  remarlvs  which  I  heard  bore  reference  to  the  fact.  But 
they  elicited  no  general  sympathy.  The  scowling  heavens,  the 
blackening  earth,  the  swollen  rivers,  the  ever-returning  shower- 
blast,  with  its  sharp-ringing  patter,  were  things  that  had  nought 
of  the  gayety  of  political  triumph  in  them  ;  and  the  more  solid 
English,  however  favorable  to  free  trade,  could  not  deem  it  a 
cause  of  gratulation  that  for  so  many  weeks  "  the  sun,  and 
the  light,  and  the  stars,  had  been  darkened,  and  the  clouds 
returned  after  the  rain."  The  general  feeling  seemed  not 
inadequately  expressed  by  a  staid  elderly  farmer,  with  whom  J 
afterwards  travelled  from  York  to  Manchester.  "  1  am  sure," 
he  said,  looking  out  into  the  rain,  which  was  beating  at  the 
time  with  great  violence,  —  "I  am  sure  1  wish  the  League  no 
harm  ;  but  Heaven  help  us  and  the  country,  if  there  is  to  be 
no  harvest!  The  League  will  have  a  dear  triumph,  if  God 
destroy  the  fruits  of  the  earth." 

Old  sacerdotal  York,  with  its  august  cathedral,  its  twenty- 
three  churches  in  which  Divine  service  is  still  performed,  its 
numerous  ecclesiastical  ruins  besides,  —  monasteries,  abbeys, 
hospitals  and  chapels,  —  at  once  struck  me  as  different  from 
anything  I  had  ever  seen  before.  St.  Andrews,  one  of  the  two 
ancient  archiepiscopal  towns  of  Scotland,  may  have  somewhat 
resembled  it  on  a  small  scale  in  the  days  of  old  Cardinal  Bea- 
ton;  but  the  peculiar  character  of  the  Scottish  Reformation 
rendered  it  impossible  that  the  country  should  possess  any 
such  ecclesiastical  city  ever  after.  Modern  improvement  has 
bore  and  there  introduced  more  of  its  commonplace  barbarisms 
into  the  busier  and  the  genteeler  streets  than  the  antiquary 
would  have  bargained  for  ,  it  has  been  rubbing  off  the  venera- 
ble rust,  somewhat  in  the  style  adopted  by  the  serving-maid, 
a^ho  scoured  the  old  Roman  buckler  with  sand  and  water  till  it 


ENGLAND    AND    [TS    FEOPL1!.  45 

sbjue:  but  York  is  essentially  an  ancient  city  still.     One  may 

sti'.l  walk  round  it  on  the  ramparts  erected  in  the  times  of 

ICdward  the  First,  and  tell   all  their  towers,  bars,  and  barba- 

rans;  and  in  threading  one's  way  along  antique  lanes,  flanked 

by  domiciles  of  mingled  oak  and  old  brick-work,  that  belly  over 

like  the  sides  of  ships,  and  were  tenanted  in  the  days  of  the 

>ater  Henrys,  o%e  stumbles  unexpectedly  on  rectories  that  have 

their  names  recorded  in  Doomsday  Book,  and  churches  that 

were  built  before   the   Conquest.     My  first  walk  through  the 

city  terminated,  as  a  matter  of  course,  at  the   cathedral,  so 

famous  for  its  architectural  magnificence  and  grandeur.     It  is 

a  noble  pile,  —  one  of  the  sublimest  things  wrought  by  human 

hands  which   the  island  contains.     As   it  rose  gray  and  tall 

before  me  in  the  thickening  twilight,  —  for  another  day  had 

passed,  and  another  evening  was  falling,  —  I  was  conscious  of 

a  more  awe-struck  and  expansive  feeling  than  any  mere  work 

of  art  had  ever  awakened  in  me  before.     The  impression  more 

resembled  what  1  have  sometimes  experienced  on  some  solitary 

ocean  shore,  o'erhung  by  dizzy  precipices,  and  lashed  high  by 

the  foaming  surf;   or  beneath   the  craggy  brow  of  some  vast 

mountain,  that  overlooks,  amid  the  mute  sublimities  of  nature, 

some  far-spread    uninhabited  wilderness  of   forest  and    moor. 

I  realized  better  than  ever  before  the  justice  of  the   eulogium 

of  Thomson  on  the  art  of  the  architect,  and  recognized  it  as  in 

reality 

"  The  art  where  most  mngnificent  appears 
Tlie  little  builder  lUiin." 

It  was  too  late  to  gain  admission  to  the  edifice,  and  far  toti 
late  to  witness  the  daily  service  ;  and  I  was  desirous  to  set  not 
only  the  stately  temple  itself,  but  \he  worship  performed  in  it. 
I  s'oent,  h  iwever,  an  hour  in  wandering  round  it,  —  in  marJcing 
th«'  eflfjct  Dn  buttress  and  pinnacle,  turret  and  arch,  of  the,  still 


46  IRST    IMPRESSl  jNS    OF 

deepening  shbiuv,«ii,  and  in  catch  ng  the  general  outline  bft 
tween  me  and  the  sky.  The  night  had  set  fairly  in  long  eel 
reached  niy  lodging-house.  York  races  had  just  begun;  end 
bad  as  the  weather  was,  there  was  so  considerable  an  influx  of 
strangers  into  the  town,  that  there  were  few  beds  in  the  inns 
unoccupied,  and  1  had  to  content  myself  with  the  share  of  a 
bed-room  in  which  there  were  two.  My  co|partner  in  the 
room  came  in  late  and  went  away  early ;  and  all  I  know  of 
him,  or  shall  perhaps  ever  know,  is,  that  after  having  first 
ascertained,  not  very  correctly,  as  it  proved,  that  I  was  asleep, 
he  prayed  long  and  earnestly ;  that,  as  I  afterwards  learned 
from  the  landlord,  he  was  a  Wesleyan  Methodist,  who  had 
come  from  the  country,  not  to  attend  the  races,  for  he  was  not 
one  of  the  race-frequenting  sort  of  people,  but  on  some  busi- 
ness ;  and  that  he  w;-<  much  respected  in  his  neighborhood  for 
the  excellence  of  h'is  character. 

Next  morning  I  attended  service  in  the  cathedral ;  and  being, 
I  found,  half  an  hour  .00  early,  spent  the  interval  not  unpleas- 
antly in  pacing  the  aisles  and  nave,  and  studying  the  stories 
so  doubtfully  recorded  on  the  old  painted  glass.  As  I  stood 
at  the  western  door,  and  savv  the  noble  stone  roof  stretching 
away  more  than  thirty  yards  overhead,  in  a  long  vista  of  five 
hundred  feet,  to  the  great  eastern  window,  I  again  experienced 
the  feeling  of  the  previous  evening.  Never  before  had  I  seen 
so  noble  a  cover.  The  ornate  complexities  of  the  groined 
vaulting,  —  the  giant  columns,  with  their  foliage-bound  capi- 
tals, sweeping  away  in  magnificent  perspective,  —  the  colored 
light  that  streamed  through  more  than  a  hundred  huge  win- 
dows, and  but  faintly  illumined  the  vast  area,  after  all,  —  the 
deep  withdiawing  aisles,  with  their  streets  of  tombs,  —  tlu 
great  tower,  mder  which  a  ship  of  the  line  might  hoist  top  and 
top-gallant  riast,  and  find   ample  room  overhead  for  tho  plav 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  47 

0.'  her  \ane,  —  the  felt  combination  of  j^reat  age  and  in,issive 
durability,  that  made  the  passing  hour  in  the  histon  of  the 
edifice  but  a  mere  half-way  point  between  the  centuriet  of  the 
past  and  the  centuries  of  the  future,  —  all  conspired  to  render 
the  interior  of  York  Minster  one  of  the  most  impressive  objects 
1  had  ever  seen.  Johnson  singles  out  Congreve's  description 
of  a  similar  pile  as  one  of  the  finest  in  the  whole  range  of  Eng- 
lish poetry.  It  is  at  least  description  without  exaggeration,  in 
reference  to  buildings  such  as  this  cathedral. 

♦•  Jllmcria.   It  was  a  foncied  noise;  for  all  is  hushed. 

Leonora.   It  bore  the  accent  of  a  human  voice. 

Jllmeria.    It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  transient  wind 
■Whistling  through  hollows  of  this  vaulted  aisle. 
We  '11  listen  — 

Leonora.    Hark  ! 

Almeria.   No,  all  is  hushed  and  still  as  death  :  'tia  dreadful. 
How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile. 
Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads. 
To  bear  aloft  its  arched  and  ponderous  roof. 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immovable, — 
Looking  tranquillity  !     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  the  aching  sight  :  the  tombs 
i\nd  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold,  • 

And  shoot  a  chillness  to  the  trembling  heart. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice; 
Nay,  quickly  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 
Thy  voice  :  my  own  affrights  me  with  its  echoes." 

But  though  I  felt  the  poetry  of  the  edifice,  so  .Httle  had  my 
Presbyterian  education  led  me  to  associate  the  not  unelevated 
impulses  of  the  feeling  with  the  devotional  spirit,  that,  cer- 
tainly without  intending  any  disrespect  to  either  the  national 
religion  or  one  of  the  noblest  ecclesiastical  building?  of  Eug 
jind,  I  had  fiiled  to  uncover  my  head,  and  was  quite  unaware 
of  the  gros?  solecism  I  was  committing,  until  two  of  ti.E  ofii- 


48  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ciiils,  who  had  just  ranged  themseives  in  iront  of  the  organ* 
screen,  to  usher  the  dean  and  choristers  into  the  choir,  started 
forward,  one  from  each  side  of  the  door,  and,  with  no  little 
gesticulatory  emphasis,  ordered  me  to  take  olf  my  hat.  "  Off 
hat,  sir!  off  hat!"  angrily  exclaimed  the  one.  "Take  off  your 
to,  sir!"  said  the  other,  in  a  steady,  energetic,  determined 
tone,  still  less  resistible.  The  peccant  beaver  at  once  sunk  by 
my  side,  and  I  apologized.  "Ah,  a  Scotchman!"  ejaculated 
the  keener  official  of  the  two,  his  cheek  meanwhile  losing  some 
of  the  hastily-summoned  red  ;  "  I  thought  as  much."  The 
officials  had  scarcely  resumed  their  places  beside  the  screen, 
when  Dean  and  Sub-dean,  the  Canons  Residentiary  and  the 
Archdeacon,  the  Prebendaries  and  the  Vicars  Choral,  entered 
the  building  in  their  robes,  and,  with  step  slow  and  stately, 
disappeared  through  the  richly-fretted  entrance  of  the  choir. 
A  purple  curtain  fell  over  the  opening  behind  them,  as  the  last 
figure  in  the  procession  passed  in  ;  while  a  few  lay  saunterers, 
who  had  come  to  be  edified  by  the  great  organ,  found  access 
by  another  door,  which  opened  into  one  of  the  aisles. 

The  presiding  churchman,  on  the  occasion,  was  Dean  Cock- 
burn, —  a  tall,  portly  old  man,  fresh-complexioned  and  silvery- 
haired,  and  better  fitted  than  most  men  to  enact  the  part  of  an 
imposing  figure  in  a  piece  of  impressive  ceremony.  I  looked 
at  the  dean  with  some  little  interest ;  he  had  been  twice  before 
the  public  during  the  previous  five  years,  —  once  as  a  dealer 
in  church  offices,  for  which  grave  ofTence  he  had  been  deprived 
by  his  ecclesiastical  superior,  the  archbishop,  but  reponed  by 
the  queen,  —  and  once  as  a  redoubtable  asserter  of  what  he 
deemed  Bible  cosmogony,  against  the  facts  of  the  geologists. 
The  old  blood-boltered  barons  who  lived  in  the  times  of  the 
Crusades  used  to  make  all  square  with  Heaven,  w^hen  particu- 
larly aggrieved  in  their  consciences,  by  slaying  a  few  scores  of 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  49 

•nfidels  a-piece  ;  —  the  dean  had  fallen,  it  would  seem,  n.  (hese 
latter  daj-s,  on  a  similar  mode  of  doing  penance,  and  expiated 
the  crime  of  making  canons  residentiary  for  a  consideration,  by 
demolishing  a  whole  conclave  of  geologists. 

The  cathedral  service  seemed  rather  a  poor  thing,  on  the 
whole.  The  coldly-read  or  fantastically-chanted  prayers,  com- 
monplace by  the  twice-a-day  repetition  of  centuries,  —  the 
mechanical  responses,  —  the  correct  inanity  of  the  choristers, 
who  had  not  even  the  life  of  music  in  them, —  the  total  want 
of  lay  attendance,  for  the  loungers  who  had  come  in  by  the 
side-door  went  off  en  masse  when  the  organ  had  performed  its 
introductory  part,  and  the  prayers  began, —  the  ranges  of 
empty  seats,  which,  huge  as  is  the  building  which  contains 
them.,  would  scarce  accommodate  an  average-sized  Free  Church 
cono-re'Tation,  —  all  conspired  to  show  that  the  ''.athedral  service 
of  the  English  Church  does  not  represent  a  living  devotion,  but 
a  devotion  that  perished  centuries  ago.  It  is  a  petrifaction, — 
a  fossil, — existing,  it  is  true,  in  a  fine  state  of  keeping,  but 
still  an  exanimate  stone.  Many  ages  must  have  elapsed  since 
at  was  the  living  devotion  I  had  witnessed  on  the  previous  eve- 
ning in  the  double-bedded  room,  —  if,  indeed,  it  was  ever  so 
living  a  devotion,  or  aught,  at  best,  save  a  mere  painted  image. 
Not  even  as  a  piece  of  ceremonial  is  it  in  keeping  with  the 
august  edifice  in  which  it  is  performed.  The  great  organ  does 
its  part  admirably,  and  is  indisputably  a  noble  machine;  its 
thirty-two  feet  double-wood  diapason  pipe,  cut  into  lengths, 
would  make  coffins  for  three  Goliahs  of  Gath,  brass  armor  and 
all :  but  the  merely  human  part  of  the  performance  is  redolent 
of  none  of  the  poetry  which  plays  around  the  ancient  walls,  or 
streams  through  the  old  painted  glass.  It  reminded  me  of  the 
story  toid  by  the  eastern  traveller,  who,  in  exploring  a  magnifi- 
cent temple,  passed  through  superb  forticoes  and  noble  halls, 
5 


50  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

to  find  a  monkey  enthroned  in  a  little  dark  sanctum,  as  the 
god  of  the  whole. 

I  had  a  long  and  very  agreeable  walk  along  the  c.ty  ram. 
parts.  White  watery  clouds  still  hung  in  the  sky;  but  the 
day  was  decidedly  fine,  and  dank  fields  and  glistening  hedge- 
rows steamed  merrily  in  the  bright  warm  sunshine.  York, 
like  all  the  greater  towns  of  England,  if  we  except  the  capital 
and  some  two  or  three  others,  stands  on  the  New  Red  Sand- 
stone ;  and  the  broad  extent  of  level  fertility  which  it  commands 
is,  to  a  Scotch  eye,  verj'^  striking.  There  is  no  extensive  pros- 
pect in  even  the  south  of  Scotland  that  does  not  include  its 
wide  ranges  of  waste,  and  its  deep  mountain  sides,  never  fur- 
rowed by  the  plough ;  while  in  our  more  northern  districts,  one 
sees  from  every  hill-top  which  commands  the  coast  a  land- 
scape colored  somewhat  like  a  russet  shawl  with  a  flowered 
border;  —  there  is  a  mere  selvage  of  green  cultivation  on  the 
edge  of  the  land,  and  all  within  is  brown  heath  and  shaggy 
forest.  In  England,  on  the  contrary,  one  often  travels,  stage 
after  stage,  through  an  unvarying  expanse  of  flat  fields  laid  out 
on  the  level  formations,  which,  undisturbed  by  trappean  oi 
metamorphic  rocks,  stretch  away  at  low  angles  for  hundreds 
of  miles  together,  forming  blank  tablets,  on  which  man  may 
write  his  works  in  whatever  characters  he  pleases.  Doubtless 
such  a  disposition  of  things  adds  greatly  to  the  wealth  and 
power  of  a  country  ;  —  tne  population  of  Yorkshire,  at  the  jast 
census,  equalled  that  o*"  Scotland  in  1801.  But  I  soon  began 
to  weary  of  an  infinity  of  green  enclosures,  that  lay  spreat.  out 
in  undistinguishable  sameness,  like  a  net,  on  the  flat  face  of 
the  landscape,  and  to  long  for  the  wild  free  moors  and  bold 
natural  features  of  my  own  poor  country.  One  likes  tc  know 
the  place  of  one's  birth  by  other  than  artificial  marks :  by 
"lome  hoary  mountain,  severe  yet  kindly  in  its  aspect,  that  v>ne 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  51 

has  learned  to  love  as  a  friend ;  by  some  long  withdrawing 
arm  of  the  sea,  sublimely  guarded,  wheie  it  opens  to  the  ocean, 
by  its  magnificent  portals  of  rock;  by  some  wild  range  of 
precipitous  coast,  that  rears  high  its  ivy-bound  pinnacles,  and 
where  the  green  wave  ever  rises  and  falls  along  dim  resound- 
ing caverns;  by  some  lonely  glen,  with  its  old  pine  forests 
hanging  dark  on  the  slopes,  and  its  deep-brown  river  roaring 
over  linn  and  shallow  in  its  headlong  course  to  the  sea.  Who 
could  fight  for  a  country  without  features, —  that  one  would 
scarce  be  sure  of  finding  out  on  one's  return  from  the  battle, 
without  the  assistance  of  the  mile-stones  ? 

As  I  looked  on  either  hand  from  the  ancient  ramparts,  now 
down  along  the  antique  lanes  and  streets  of  the  town,  now  over 
the  broad  level  fields  beyond,  I  was  amused  to  think  how  entirei 
all  my  more  vivid  associations  with  York  —  town  and  countr} 
—  had  been  derived  from  works  of  fiction.  True,  it  was  curi- 
ous enough  to  remember,  as  a  historical  fact,  that  Christian'ty 
had  been  preached  here  to  tne  pagan  Saxons  in  the  earlier 
years  of  the  Heptarchy,  by  luissionaries  from  lona.  And  there 
are  not  a  few  other  picturesque  incidents,  that,  frosted  ovp-- 
with  the  romance  of  history,  glimmer  with  a  sort  of  phosphoric 
radiance  in  the  records  of  the  place, —  from  the  times  when 
King  Edwyn  of  the  Northumbrians  demolished  the  heathen 
temple  that  stood  where  the  cathedral  now  stands,  and  erected 
in  its  room  the  wooden  oratory  in  which  he  was  baptized,  down 
to  the  times  when  little  crooked  Leslie  broke  over  the  city 
walls  at  the  head  of  his  Covenanters,  and  held  them  agamst 
the  monarch,  in  the  name  of  the  kinj-.  But  the  historciil 
facts  have  vastly  less  of  the  vividness  of  truth  about  them  than 
the  facts  of  the  makers.  It  was  in  this  city  of  Vork  that  the 
famous  Robinson  Crusoe  was  born  ;  and  here,  in  this  city  of 
Vork,  did   Jeanie  Deans  rest  her   for  a  day,  on  her  Londcii 


52  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

njourney,  with  her  hospitable  countrywoman,  Mrs.  Bickerton  ol 
the  Seven  Stars;  and  it  was  in  the  country  beyond,  down  in 
the  West  Riding,  thit  Gurlh  and  Wamba  held  high  colloqi;y 
together,  among  the  glades  of  the  old  oak  forest;  and  thai 
Cedric  the  Saxon  entertained,  in  his  low-browed  hall  of  Roth- 
erwood,  the  Templar  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert  and  Prior  Aymei 
of  Jorvaulx. 

I  visited  the  old  castle,  now  a  prison,  and  the  town  mu- 
seum, and  found  the  geological  department  of  the  latter  at 
once  very  extensive  and  exquisitely  arranged  ;  but  the  fact, 
announced  in  the  catalogue,  that  it  had  been  laid  out  under 
the  eye  of  Phillips,  while  it  left  me  much  to  admire  in  the 
order  exhibited,  removed  at  least  all  cause  of  wonder  I  con- 
cluded the  day  —  the  first  very  agreeable  one  1  had  spent  in 
England  —  by  a  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the  Ouse,  through  a 
colonnade  of  magnificent  beeches.  The  sun  was  hastening  to 
its  setting,  and  the  red  light  fell,  with  picturesque  efl^ect,  on 
the  white  sails  of  a  handsome  brig,  that  came  speeding  up  the 
river,  through  double  rows  of  tall  trees,  before  a  light  wind 
from  the  east.  On  my  return  to  my  lodging-house,  through 
one  of  the  obscure  lanes  of  the  city,  I  picked  up,  ?.t  a  book-stall, 
what  1  deemed  no  small  curiosity,  —  the  origmal  "Trial  of 
Eugene  Aram,"  well  known  in  English  literature  as  the  hero 
of  one  of  Bulwer's  most  popular  novels,  and  one  of  Hood's 
most  finished  poems,  and  for  as  wonderful  a  thmg  as  either, 
his  own  remarkable  defence.  I  had  never  before  seen  so  full 
an  account  of  the  evidence  on  which  he  was  condemned,  nor 
of  the  closing  scene  in  his  singular  history;  nor  was  I  aware 
there  existed  such  competent  data  for  forming  an  adequate 
istimate  of  his  character,  which,  by  the  way,  seems  to  have 
been  net  at  all  the  character  drawn  by  Buhver.  Knares- 
borough   the  scene  of  Aram's  crime,  ma^   be  seen  froi  i  the  bat 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    TEOPI.E.  5'3 

tlemetts  of  York  Minster.  In  York  Castle  he  was  imprisoned, 
and  wrote  his  Defence  and  his  Autobiography;  at  York 
Assizes  he  was  tried  and  convicted ;  and  on  York  gallows  he 
was  hung.  The  city  is  as  intimately  associated  with  the  clos- 
ing scenes  in  his  history,  as  with  the  passing  visit  of  Jeanie 
Deans,  or  the  birth  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  But  there  is  this 
impolrtant  difference  in  the  cases,  that  the  one  story  has  found  a 
place  in  literature  from  the  strangely  romantic  cast  of  its  focts, 
and  the  others  from  the  intensely  truthful  air  of  their  fictions. 
Eugene  Aram  seems  not  to  have  been  the  high  heroic  char- 
acter conceived  by  the  novelist, —  not  a  hero  of  tragedy  at  all, 
nor  a  hero  of  any  kind,  but  simply  a  poor  egotistical  litterateur 
with  a  fine  intellect  set  in  a  very  inferior  nature.  He  repre 
sents  the  extreme  type  of  unfortunately  a  numerous  class,  — 
the  men  of  vigorous  talent,  in  some  instances  of  fine  genius, 
who,  though  they  can  think  much  and  highly  of  themselves, 
eeem  wholly  unable  to  appreciate  their  true  place  and  work,  or 
the  real  dignity  of  their  standing,  and  so  are  continually  get- 
ting into  false,  unworthy  positions,  —  in  some  instances  falling 
into  little  meannesses,  in  others  into  contemptible  crimes.  1 
am  afraid  it  is  all  too  evident  that  even  the  sage  Bacon  be- 
longed to  this  class ;  and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that,  though 
greatly  less  a  criminal,  the  elegant  and  vigorous  poet  who 
described  him  as 

•  The  greatest,  wisest,  meanest  of  mankind," 

belonged  to  it  also.  The  phosphoric  light  of  genius,  that 
throws  so  radiant  a  gloom  athwart  the  obscurities  of  nature, 
has  in  some  cises  been  carried  by  a  frivolous  insect,  in  some 
by  a  creeping  worm  :  there  are  brilliant  intellects  of  the  fire-llv 
and  of  the  glow-worm  class ;  and  poor  Eugene  Aram  was  one 
of  them.  In  his  character,  as  embodied  in  the  rvidenw«:  on 
5* 


54  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

which  he  va.s  convicted  and  condemned,  we  see  merely  thnt 
of  a  felo.  of  the  baser  sort:  a  man  who  associated  with  low 
companions ;  married  a  low  wife ;  entered  into  low  sharping 
schemes  with  a  poor  dishonest  creature,  whom,  early  in  his 
career  he  used  to  accompany  at  nights  in  stealing  flower-roots, 
—  for  they  possessed  in  common  a  taste  for  gardening,  —  and 
whom  he  afterwards  barbarously  murdered,  to  possess  himself 
of  a  few  miserable  pounds,  —  the  proceeds  of  a  piece  of  dis- 
reputable swindling,  to  which  he  had  prompted  him.  Viewed, 
however,  in  another  phase,  we  find  that  this  low  felon  possessed 
one  of  those  vigorous  intellectual  natures  that,  month  after 
month,  and  year  after  year,  steadily  progress  in  acquirement, 
as  the  forest-tree  swells  in  bulk  of  trunk  and  amplitude  of 
bough  ;  till,  at  length,  with  scarce  any  educational  advantages, 
there  was  no  learned  language  which  lie  had  not  mastered,  and 
scarce  a  classic  author  which  he  had  not  read.  And,  finally, 
when  the  learned  felon  came  to  make  his  defence,  all  Britain 
was  astonished  by  a  piece  of  pleading  that,  for  the  elegance  of 
the  composition  and  the  vigor  of  the  thought,  would  have  done 
no  discredit  to  the  most  accomplished  writers  of  the  day.  The 
defence  of  Eugene  Aram,  if  given  to  tbe  public  among  the 
defences,  and  under  the  name,  of  Thomas  Lord  Erskine,  so 
celebrated  for  this  species  of  composition,  would  certainly  not 
be  deemed  unworthy  of  the  collection  or  its  author.  There 
c.-an  be  no  question  that  the  Aram  of  Buiwer  is  a  well-drawn 
character,  and  rich  in  the  picturesque  of  tragic  effect ;  but  the 
exhibition  is  neither  so  melancholy  nor  so  instructive  as  that 
of  the  Eugene  Aram  who  was  executed  at  York  for  murder  in 
•he  autumn  of  1759,  and  his  body  afterwards  hung  in  chains  a^ 
"  the  place  cilled  St.  Robert's  Cave,  near  Knarpsborough."' 


EN6LAN1     AND    ITS    PEOFLli. 


55 


CHAirER    III. 

ftuit  York  for  Man  lester.  —  A  Character.  —  Quaker  Laay.  —  Peculiar 
Feature  in  the  Hus.-)andry  of  the  Cloth  District. —  Leeds.  —  Simolicity 
manifested  in  the  Geologic  Framework  of  English  Scenery.  —  The  De- 
nuding Agencies  almost  invariably  the  sole  Architects  of  the  Landscape. 

—  Manchester;  characteristic  Peculiarities;  the  Irwell ;  Collegiate 
Church;  light  and  elegant  Proportions  of  the  Building;  its  grotesque 
Sculptures  ;  these  indicative  of  the  Scepticism  of  the  Age  in  which  they 
were    produced.  —  St.   Bartholomew's    Day. —  Sermon  on  Saints' Day. 

—  Timothy's  Grandmother.  —  The  Puseyite  a  High  Churchman  become 
earnest.  —  Passengers  of  a  Sunday  Evening  Train.  —  Sabbath  Amuse- 
ments not  very  conducive  to  Happiness.  —  The  Economic  Value  of  the 
Sabhalh  ill  understood  by  the  Utilitarian.  —  Testimony  of  History  on 
the  point. 

On  the  following  morning  I  quitted  York  for  Manchester, 
taking  Leeds  in  my  vvay.  I  had  seen  two  of  the  ecclesiastical 
cities  of  Old  England,  and  I  was  now  desirous  to  visit  two  of 
the  great  trading  towns  of  the  modern  country,  so  famous  for 
supplying  with  its  manufactures  half  the  economic  wants  of 
the  world. 

At  the  first  stage  from  York,  we  were  joined  by  a  young- 
lady  passenger,  of  forty  or  thereabouts,  evidently  a  character. 
She  was  very  g;iudily  dressed,  and  very  tightly  laced,  and  had 
a  bloom  of  red  in  her  cheeks  that  seemed  to  have  been  just  a 
little  assisted  by  art,  and  a  bloom  of  red  in  her  nose  that  seemed 
not  to  have  been  assisted  by  art  at  all.  Alarmingly  frank  and 
portentously  talkative,  she  at  once  thre\7  herself  for  protection 
and  guidance  on  "  the  gentlemen."  SI  s  had  to  get  down  at 
one  of  the  intermediate  stages,  she  said ;  but  were  she  to  be  sc 
Wucky  as  to  pass  it,  she  would  not  know  what  to  c'o  —  she 


56  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

wou  d  be  at  aer  wit's  end ;  but  she  trusted  she  would  not  Ije 
permitted  to  pass  it :  she  threw  herself  upon  the  generosity  of 
the  gentlemea,  —  she  always  did,  indeed  ;  and  she  trusted  the 
generous  gentlemen  would  inform  her,  when  she  came  to  her 
stage,  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  get  out.  I  had  rarely  seen, 
except  in  old  play-books,  written  when  our  dramatists  of  the 
French  school  were  drawing  ladies'-maids  of  the  time  of 
Charles  the  Second,  a  character  of  the  kind  quite  so  stage-like 
in  its  aspect ;  and  in  a  quiet  way  was  enjoying  the  exliibition. 
And  the  passenger  who  sat  fronting  me  in  the  carriage  —  an 
elderly  lady  of  the  Society  of  Friends  —  was,  1  found,  enjoy- 
ing it  quite  as  much  and  as  quietly  as  myself.  A  countenance 
of  much  transparency,  that  had  been  once  very  pretty,  exhibited 
at  every  droll  turn  in  the  dialogue  the  appropriate  expression. 
Kemarking  to  a  gentleman  beside  me  that  good  names  were 
surely  rather  a  scant  commodity  in  England,  seeing  they  had 
not  a  few  towns  and  rivers,  which,  like  many  of  the  American 
ones,  seemed  to  exist  in  duplicate  and  triplicate,  —  they  had 
three  Newcastles,  and  four  Stratfords,  and  at  least  two  river 
Ouses,  —  I  asked  him  how  I  could  travel  most  directly  by  rail- 
way to  Cowper's  Ouse.  He  did  not  know,  he  said;  he  had 
never  heard  of  a  river  Ouse  except  the  Yorkshire  one,  which  I 
had  just  seen.  The  Quaker  lady  supplied  me  with  the  inform- 
ation I  wanted,  by  pointing  out  the  best  route  to  Olney  and 
the  circumstance  led  to  a  conversation  which  only  terminated 
at  our  arrival  at  Leeds.  I  found  her  possessed,  like  many  of 
the  Society  of  Friends,  whom  Howitt  so  well  desci.bes,  of 
literacy  taste,  conversational  ability,  and  extensive  information  ; 
ind  we  expatiated  together  over  a  wide  range.  We  discussed 
English  poets  and.  poetry;  compared  notes  regarding  our  crit- 
ical formulas  and  canons,  and  found  them  wonderfully  alike ; 
beat  ovp,r  the  Scottish  Church  question,  and  some  dozen  or  so 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  67 

3tner  questions  besides ;  and  at  parting,  she  invited  me  t  >  visit 
her  at  her  house  in  Bedfordshire,  within  half  a  day's  journey 
of  Ohiey.  She  was  at  present  residing  with  a  friend,  she  said  ; 
but  she  would  be  at  home  in  less  than  a  fortnight ;  and  there 
was  much  in  her  neighborhood  which,  she  was  sure,  it  would 
g^ve  me  pleasure  to  see.  I  was  unable  ultimately  to  avail 
myself  of  her  kindness ;  but  in  the  hope  that  these  chapters 
may  yet  meet  her  eye,  1  must  be  permitted  to  reiterate  my 
smcere  thanks  for  her  frank  and  hospitable  invitation.  The 
frankness  struck  me  at  the  time  as  characteristically  English ; 
while  the  hospitality  associated  well  with  all  I  had  previously 
known  of  the  Society  of  Friends. 

I  marked,  in  passing  on  to  Leeds,  a  new  feature  in  the  hus- 
bandry of  the  district,  —  whole  fields  of  teazles,  in  flower  at  the 
time,  waving  gray  in  the  breeze.  They  indicated  that  I  was 
approaching  the  great  centre  of  the  cloth-trade  in  England. 
The  larger  heads  of  this  plant,  bristling  over  with  their  numer- 
ous minute  hooks,  are  employed  as  a  kind  of  brushes  or  combs 
for  raising  the  nap  of  the  finer  broadcloths ;  and  it  seems  a 
curious  enough  circumstance  that,  in  this  mechanical  age,  so 
famous  for  the  ingenuity  and  niceness  of  its  machines,  no  effort 
of  the  mechanician  has  as  yet  enabled  him  to  supersede,  or  even 
to  rival,  this  delicate  machine  of  nature's  making.  I  failed  to 
acquaint  myself  very  intimately  with  Leeds :  the  rain  had 
again  returned,  after  a  brief  interval  of  somewhat  less  that  two 
days ;  and  I  saw,  under  cover  of  my  old  friend  the  umbrella, 
but  the  outsidcs  of  the  two  famous  cloth-halls  of  the  place, 
where  there  are  more  woollen  stuffs  bought  and  sold  than  in 
any  other  dozer  buildings  in  the  world ;  and  its  long  uphill- 
street  of  shops,  vvith  phlegmatic  Queen  Anne  looking  grimly 
adown  the  slope,  from  her  niche  of  dingy  sandstone.  On  the 
folhwiny;  morning,  which  was  wet  and  stormy  as  ever,  I  tooW 


68  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

the  railway  train  for  Manchester,  which  I  reached  a  litt'e  afteJ 
mtd-day. 

Ill  passing  through  Northumberland,  I  had  quitted  the  hilly 
district  when  I  quitted  the  Mountain  Limestone  and  Millstone 
Grit ;  and  now,  in  travelling  on  to  Manchester,  I  had,  I  found, 
again  got  into  a  mountainous,  semi-pastoral  country.  There 
were  deep  green  valleys,  traversed  by  lively  tumbling  streams, 
that  opened  on  either  hand  among  the  hills ;  and  the  course  of 
the  railway  train  was,  for  a  time,  one  of  great  vicissitude,  — 
now  elevated  high  on  an  embankment,  now  burrowing  deep 
in  a  tunnel.  It  is,  the  traveller  finds,  the  same  Millstone  Grit 
and  Mountain  Limestone  which  form  the  hilly  regions  of  Nor- 
humberland,  that  give  here  their  hills  and  valleys  to  Lanca- 
shire and  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire ;  and  that,  passing  on 
to  Derby,  in  the  general  south-western  range  of  the  English 
formations,  compose  the  Peak,  so  famous  for  its  many  caves 
and  chasms,  with  all  the  picturesque  groups  of  eminences  that 
surround  it.  There  are  few  things  which  so  strike  the  Scotch 
geologist  who  visits  England  for  the  first  time,  as  the  simplicity 
with  which  he  finds  he  can  resolve  the  varying  landscape  into 
its  geologic  elements.  The  case  is  different  in  Scotland,  where 
he  has  to  deal,  in  almost  every  locality,  with  both  the  denuding 
and  the  Plutonic  agents,  and  where,  as  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Edinburgh,  many  independent  centres  of  internal  action, 
grouped  closely  together,  connect  the  composition  of  single 
prospects  with  numerous  and  very  varied  catastrophes.  But 
in  most  English  landscapes  one  has  to  deal  with  the  denuding 
agents  alone.  In  passing  along  an  open  sea-coast,  on  which 
strata  of  the  Secondary  or  Palseozoic  formations  have  been  laid 
bare,  one  finds  that  the  degree  of  prominence  exh'bited  by  the 
bars  ai-.d  ridges  of  rock  exposed  to  the  waves  corresponds 
always  with  their  degree  of  tenacity  and  hardness.     A  bed  of 


ENGt.A.ND    AND    ITS    PEC  PLE.  fi9 

soft  ssnale  or  clay  we  fina  represented  by  a  hollow  trough  the 
surf  has  worn  it  down  till  it  can  no  longer  be  seen,  and  a  strip 
of  smooth  gravel  rests  over  it ;  a  stratum  of  sandstone,  of  the 
average  solidity,  rises  above  the  hollow  like  a  mole,  for  the 
waves  have  failed  to  wear  the  sandstone  down  ;  while  a  band 
of  limestone  or  chert  we  find  rising  still  higher,  because  still 
better  suited,  from  its  great  tenacity,  to  resist  the  attrition  of 
the  denuding  agents.  And  such,  on  a  great  scale,  is  the  prin- 
ciple of  what  one  may  term  the  geologic  framework  of  English 
landscape.  The  softer  formations  of  the  country  we  find  repre- 
sented, like  the  shale-beds  on  the  shore,  by  wide  flat  valleys  or 
extensive  plains ;  the  harder,  by  chains  of  hills  of  greater  or 
lesser  altitude,  according  to  the  degree  of  solidity  possessed  by 
the  composing  material.  A  few  insulated  districts  oT  country, 
such  as  part  of  North  Wales,  Westmoreland,  and  Cornwall, 
where  the  Plutonic  agencies  have  been  active,  we  find  coming 
under  the  more  complex  law  of  Scottish  landscape  ;  but  in  all 
the  rest,  —  save  where  here  and  there  a  minute  trappean  patch 
imparts  its  inequalities  to  the  surface,  as  in  the  Dudley  coal- 
field, —  soft  or  hard,  solid  or  incoherent,  determines  the  ques- 
tion of  high  or  low,  bold  or  tame.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a 
common  map  of  England,  on  which  the  eminences  are  marked, 
but  not  the  geologic  formations.  These,  however,  we  may 
almost  trace  by  the  chains  of  hills,  or  from  the  want  of  them. 
This  hilly  region,  for  instance,  which  extends  from  the  northern 
borders  of  Northumberland  to  Derby,  represents  the  Millstone 
Grit  and  Mountain  Limestone, —  solid  deposits  of  indurated 
sandstone  and  crystalline  lime,  that  stand  up  amid  the  land 
scape  like  the  harder  strata  on  the  wave-worn  sea-coast.  On 
both  sides  of  this  mountainous  tract  there  are  level  plains  of 
^ast  extent,  that  begin  to  form  on  the  one  side  near  Newcastle 
And  at  Lancaster  on  the  other,  and  which,  uniting  at  Wirks- 


60  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

woith,  sweep  on  to  the  Bristol  Channel  in  the  diagonal  line  of 
the  English  formations.  These  level  plains  represent  the 
yielding,  semi-coherent  New  Red  Sandstone  of  England. 
Tlie  denuding  agents  have  worn, it  down  in  the  way  we  find 
the  soft  shale-beds  worn  down  on  the  sea-shore.  On  the  west 
we  see  it  flanked  by  the  Old  Red  Sandstone  and  Silurian 
systems  of  Wales  and  western  England,  —  formations  solid 
enough  to  form  a  hilly  country ;  and  on  the  east,  by  a  long 
hilly  line,  that,  with  little  interruption,  traverses  the  island 
diagonally  from  Whitby  on  the  Yorkshire  coast,  to  Lyme 
Regis  on  the  English  Channel.  This  elevated  line  traverses 
longitudinally  the  Oolitic  formation,  and  owes  its  existence  to 
those  coralline  reefs  and  firm  calcareous  sandstones  of  the 
system  that  are  so  extensively  used  by  the  architect.  Another 
series  of  hilly  ridges,  somewhat  more  complicated  in  their 
virindings,  represent  the  Upper  and  Lower  Chalk:  while  the 
softer  Weald,  Gault,  Greensand,  and  Tertiary  deposits,  we  find 
existing  as  level  plains  or  wide  shallow  valleys.  In  most  of 
our  geologic  maps  the  hill-ranges  are  not  indicated  ;  but  in  a 
coimtry  such  as  England,  where  these  are  so  palpably  a  joint 
result  of  the  geologic  formations  and  the  denuding  agencies,  the 
omission  is  surely  a  defect. 

Manchester  I  found  as  true  a  representative  of  the  great 
manufacturing  tOAvn  of  modern  England,  as  York  of  the  old 
English  ecclesiastical  city.  One  receives  one's  first  intimation 
of  its  existence  from  the  lurid  gloom  of  the  atmosphere  that 
overhangs  it.  There  is  a  murky  blot  in  one  section  of  the  sky, 
however  clear  the  weather,  which  broadens  and  heightens  as 
we  approach,  until  at  length  it  seems  spread  over  half  the  firma- 
ment. And  now  the  innumerable  chimneys  come  in  view,  tall 
and  dim  in  the  dun  haze,  each  bearing  atop  its  own  troubled 
pennon  of  darkness.     And  now  we  enter  the  suburbs,  and  pass 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  tiJ 

through  mediocre  streets  of  brick,  that  seem  as  if  they  had 
Heen  built  wholesale  by  contract  within  the  last  half-dozen 
years.  These  humble  houses  are  the  homes  of  the  operative 
manufacturers.  The  old  walls  of  York,  built  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  the  First,  still  enclose  the  city  ;  —  the  antique  suit  of 
armor  made  for  it  six  Imndred  years  ago,  though  the  fit  be 
somewhat  of  the  tightest,  buckles  round  it  still.  Manchester, 
on  the  other  hand,  has  been  doubling  its  population  every  half- 
century  for  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years  ;  and  the  cord  of 
cotton  twist  that  would  have  girdled  it  at  the  beginning  of  the 
great  revolutionary  war,  would  do  little  more  than  half-girdle 
it  now.  The  field  of  Peterloo,  on  which  the  yeomanry  slashed 
down  the  cotton-workers  assembled  to  hear  Henry  Hunt,  — 
poor  lank-jawed  men,  who  would  doubtless  have  manifested 
less  interest  in  the  nonsense  of  the  orator,  had  they  been  less 
hungry  at  the  time,  —  has  been  covered  with  brick  for  the  le^t 
ten  years. 

As  we  advance,  the  town  presents  a  new  feature.  We  see 
whole  streets  of  warehouses,  —  dead,  dingy,  gigantic  buildings, 
barred  out  from  the  light ;  and,  save  where  here  and  there  b 
huge  wagon  stands,  lading  or  unlading  under  the  mid-air 
craiTe,  the  thoroughfares,  and  especially  the  numerous  cid  de 
sacs,  have  a  solitary,  half-deserted  air.  But  the  city  clocks 
nave  just  struck  one,  —  the  dinner  hour  of  the  laboring  Eng- 
lish ;  and  in  one  brief  minute  Jwo-thirds  of  the  population 
of  the  place  have  turned  out  into  the  streets.  The  rush  of  the 
human  tide  is  tremendous,  —  headlong  and  arrowy  as  that  of  a 
Highland  river  in  flood,  or  as  that  of  a  water-spout  just  broken 
amid  the  hills,  and  at  once  hurrying  adown  a  hundred  diflferent 
ravines.  But  the  outburst  is  short  as  fierce :  we  have  stepped 
aside  mto  some  door-way,  or  out  towards  the  centre  of  some 
public  square,  to  be  beyond  the  wind  of  such  commotion  ;  and 
6 


62  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

in  s.  few  minutes  all  is  over,  ai.i  the  streets  even  more  v^uiel 
and  solitary  than  before.  There  is  an  air  of  much  magnifi- 
cence about  the  public  buildings  devoted  to  trade ;  and  the 
larger  shops  wear  the  solid  aspect  of  long-established  busi- 
ness. But  nothing  seems  more  characteristic  of  the  great 
irianufacturing  city,  though  disagreeably  so,  than  the  river 
Irwell,  which  runs  through  the  place,  dividing  it  into  a  lesser 
and  larger  town,  that,  though  they  bear  different  names,  are 
essentially  one.  The  hapless  river  —  a  pretty  enough  streair 
a  few  miles  higher  up,  with  trees  overhanging  its  banks,  and 
fringes  of  green  sedge  set  thick  along  its  edges  —  loses  caste 
as  it  gets  among  the  mills  and  the  print-works.  There  are 
myriads  of  dirty  things  given  it  to  wash,  and  whole  wagon- 
loads  of  poisons  from  dye-houses  and  bleach-yards  thrown  into 
it  to  carry  away  ;  steam-boilers  discharge  into  it  their  seething 
contents,  and  drains  and  sewers  their  fetid  impurities ;  till  at 
length  it  rolls  on,  —  here  between  tall  dingy  walls,  there  under 
precipices  of  red  sandstone,  —  considerably  less  a  river  than  a 
flood  of  liquid  manure,  in  which  all  life  dies,  whether  animal 
or  vegetable,  and  which  resembles  nothing  in  nature,  except 
perhaps  the  stream  thrown  out  in  eruption  by  some  mud 
volcano.  In  passing  along  where  the  river  sweeps  by  the* old 
Collegiate  Church,  I  met  a  party  of  town-police  dragging  a 
female  culprit  —  delirious,  dirty,  and  in  drink  —  to  the  police- 
ofUce ;  and  I  bethought  me  of  the  well-known  comparison  of 
Cowper,  beginning, 

*'  Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade, 
Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid,"  — 

of  the  maudlin  woman  not  virtuous,  - —  and  of  the  Irwell.     Ac- 
cording to  one  of  the  poets  contemporary  with  him  of  Olney, ' 
slio-htly  altered, 


ENGLAND    AN        TS    PEOPLE.  GS 

"  In  spite  of  fair  Zelinda's  charms. 
And  all  her  bards  express. 
Poor  Lyce  made  as  true  a  stream, 
And  I  but  flattered  less. ' ' 

I  spent  in  Manchester  my  first  English  Sabbath ;  and  as  i 
had  crossed  the  border,  not  to  see  countrymen,  nor  to  hear 
such  sermons  as  I  might  hear  every  Sunday  at  home,  I  went 
direct  to  the  Collegiate  Church.  This  building  —  a  fine 
specimen  of  the  florid  Gothic  —  dates  somewhere  about  the 
time  when  the  Council  of  Constance  was  deposing  Pope  John 
for  his  enormous  crimes,  and  burning  John  Huss  and  Jerome 
of  Prague  for  their  wholesome  opinions ;  and  when,  though 
Popery  had  become  miserably  worn  out  as  a  code  of  belief,  the 
revived  religion  of  the  New  Testament  could  find  no  rest  for 
the  sole  of  its  foot  amid  a  wide  weltering  flood  of  practical 
infidelity  and  epicurism  in  the  Church,  and  gross  superstition 
and  ignorance  among  the  laity.  And  the  architecture  and 
numerous  sculptures  of  the  pile  bear  meet  testimony  to  the 
character  of  the  time.  They  approve  themselves  the  proilvic- 
tions  of  an  age  in  which  the  priest,  engaged  in  his  round  of 
rite  and  ceremony,  could  intimate  knowingly  to  a  brothei 
priest,  without  over-much  exciting  lay  suspicion,  that  he  knew 
his  profession  to  be  but  a  joke.  Some  of  the  old  Cartularies 
curiously  indicate  this  state  of  matters.  "  The  Cartulary  of 
Moray,"  says  an  ingenious  writer  in  the  North  British  Review, 
"contains  the  Constitutiones  Lyncolnienses,  in&v,rted  as  proper 
rules  for  the  priests  of  that  northern  province,  from  M'hich  we 
learn  that  they  were  to  enter  the  place  of  worship,  nut  with 
insolent  looks,  but  decently  and  in  order ;  and  were  to  oe 
guilt)'  of  no  laughing,  or  of  attempting  the  perpetration  of  any 
base  jokes  [turpi  risu  aid  joac),  and  at  the  same  time  to  con- 
duct their  whispering?  in   an   under   tone.     A    full   stomrch. 


fi4  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

however,  is  not  tie  best  provocative  to  lively  attention;  anil  it 
is  therefore  far  from  wonderful  that  the  fathers  dozed.  In- 
genuity provided  a  remedy  even  for  this ;  and  the  curious 
visiter  will  find  in  the  niches  of  the  ruined  walls  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical edifices  of  other  days  oscillating  seats,  which  turn  upon 
a  pivot,  and  require  the  utmost  care  of  the  sitter  to  keep  steady. 
The  poor  monk  who  would  dare  to  indulge  in  one  short  nap 
would  by  this  most  cruel  contrivance  be  thrown  forward  upon 
the  stone- floor  of  the  edifice,  to  the  great  danger  of  his  neck, 
and  be  covered  at  the  same  time  with  the  '  base  laughter  and 
oking  '  of  his  brethren." 

Externally  the  Collegiate  Church  is  sorely  wasted  and  much 
ilackened;  and.  save  at  some  little  distance,  its  light  and 
elegant  proportions  fail  to  tell.  The  sooty  atmosphere  of  the 
place  has  imparted  to  it  its  own  dingy  hue  ;  while  the  soft 
New  Red  Sandstone  of  which  it  is  built  has  resigned-  all  the 
nicer  tracery  intrusted  to  its  keeping  to  the  slow  wear  of  the 
fotr  centuries  which  have  elapsed  since  the  erection  of  the 
edifice.  But  in  the  interior  all  is  fresh  and  sharp  as  when  the 
field  of  Bosworth  was  stricken.  What  first  impresses  as  un- 
usual is  the  blaze  of  light  which  fills  the  place.  For  the 
expected  dim  solemnity  of  an  old  ecclesiastical  edifice,  one 
finds  the  full  glare  of  a  modern  assembly-room  ;  the  day-light 
streams  in  through  numerous  windows,  mullioned  with  slim 
shafts  of  stone  curiously  intertwisted  atop,  and  pla^s  amid  tal' 
slender  columns,  arches  of  graceful  sweep,  and  singularly  ele 
gant  groinings,  that  shoot  out  their  clusters  of  stony  branches, 
light  and  graceful  as  the  expanding  boughs  of  some  lime  or 
Doplar  grove.  The  air  of  the  place  is  gay,  not  solemn;  nor 
are  the  subjects  of  its  numerous  sculptures  of  a  kind  suited  to 
deepen  the  nnpression.  Not  a  few  of  the  carvings  which  dec- 
•irate  every  patch  of  vail  are  of  the  most  ludicrous  character 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  65 

Rows  jf  grotesque  head,  look  down  into  the  nave  frcm  the 
spandrels  :  some  twist  their  features  to  the  one  side  of  the  face, 
some  to  the  other;  some  wink  hard,  as  if  exceedingly  in  joke  ; 
some  troll  out  their  tong'ie ;  some  give  expression  to  a  lugu- 
brious mirth,  others  to  a  ludicrous  sorrow.  In  the  choir,  — • 
>f  course,  a  still  holier  part  of  the  edifice  than  the  nave,  —  the 
."culptor  seems  to  have  let  his  imagination  altogether  run  riot. 
In  one  compartment  there  sits,  with  a  birch  over  his  shoulder, 
an  old  fox,  stern  of  aspect  as  Goldsmith's  schoolmaster, 
engaged  in  teaching  two  cubs  to  read.  In  another,  a  respect- 
able-looking boar,  elevated  on  his  hind  legs,  is  playing  on  the 
bag-pipe,  while  his  hopeful  family,  four  young  pigs,  are  danc- 
ing to  his  music  behind  their  trough.  In  yet  another,  there  is 
a  hare,  contemplating  with  evident  satisfaction  a  boiling  pot, 
ivhich  contains  a  dog  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  tender.  But 
in  yet  another  the  priestly  designer  seems  to  have  lost  sight  of 
prudence  and  decorum  altogether :  the  chief  figure  in  the  piece 
IS  a  monkey  administering  extreme  unction  to  a  dying  man, 
while  a  party  of  other  monkeys  are  plundering  the  poor  sufferer 
of  his  effects,  and  gobbling  up  his  provisions.  A  Scotch  High 
lander's  faith  in  the  fairies  is  much  less  a  reality  now  than  it 
has  been ;  but  few  Scotch  Highlanders  would  venture  to  take 
such  liberties  with  their  neighbors  the  "  good  people,"  a^  the 
old  ecclesiastics  of  Manchester  took  with  the  sei-vices  of  thbir 
religion. 

It  is  rather  difficult  for  a  stranger  in  such  a  place  to  follow 
with  strict  attimtion  the  lesson  of  the  day.  To  the  sermon, 
however,  which  was  preached  in  a  surplicej,  I  found  it  com 
[wratively  easy  to  listen.  The  Sabbath  —  a  red-letter  one  — 
was  the  twice  famous  St.  Bartholomew's  day,  associated  in  the 
history  of  Protestantism  with  the  barbarous  massacre  of  the 
French  H:guenots,  and  in  tlie  history'  of  Puritanism  with  thr* 
6* 


6fi  '  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ejection  of  the  English  non-conforming  ministers  after  the 
Restoration ;  ami  the  sermon  was  a  labored  defence  of  saints' 
days  in  general,  and  of  the  claims  of  St.  Bartholomew's  day  in 
particular.  There  was  not  a  very  great  deal  known  of  St. 
Bartholomew,  said  the  clergyman  ;  but  this  much  at  least  we 
all  know,  —  he  was  a  good  man,  —  an  exceedingly  good  man  : 
it  would  be  well  for  us  to  be  all  like  him  ;  and  it  was  evidently 
our  duty  to  be  trying  to  be  as  like  him  as  we  could.  As  for 
saints'  days,  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  them  :  they  were 
very  admirable  things  ;  they  had  large  standing  in  tradition, 
as  might  be  seen  from  ecclesiastical  jiistory,  and  the  writings 
of  the  later  fathers  ;  and  large  standing,  too,  in  the  Church  of 
England,  —  a  fact  which  no  one  acquainted  with  "  our  excel- 
lent Prayer-Book  "  could  in  the  least  question  ;  nay,  it  would 
seem  as  if  they  had  even  some  standing  in  Scripture  itself. 
Did  not  St.  Paul  remind  Timothy  of  the  faith  that  had  dwelt 
in  Lois  and  Eunice,  his  grandmother  and  mother  ?  and  had 
we  not  therefore  a  good  Scriptural'  argumeat  for  keeping 
saints'  days,  seeing  that  Timothy  must  have  respected  the 
saint  his  grandmother  ?  I  looked  round  me  to  see  how  the 
congregation  was  taking  all  this,  but  the  congregation  bore  the 
tranquil  air  of  people  quite  used  to  such  sermons.  There 
were  a  good  many  elderly  gentlemen  who  had  dropped  asleep, 
and  a  good  many  more  who  seemed  speculating  in  cotton  ;  but 
the  general  aspect  was  one  of  heavy,  inattentive  decency : 
there  was,  in  short,  no  class  of  countenances  within  the  build* 
:ing  that  bore  the  appropriate  expression,  save  the  stone  counte- 
nances on  the  wall. 

My  fellow-guests  in  the  coffee-house  in  which  I  lodged  were, 
Bn  English  Independent,  a  man  of  some  intelligence,  —  and  a 
young  Scotchman,  a  member  of  the  Relief  body.  They  had 
Heen  hearing  they  told  me,  an  excellent  discourse,  in  which 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  67 

the  preacher  had  made  impressive  allusion  to  the  historic 
associations  of  the  day  ;  in  especial,  to  the  time 

•*  When  good  Coligny's  hoary  hair  was  dabbled  all  in  blood." 

1  greatly  tickled  them,  by  givi  ig  them,  in  turn,  a  simple  out- 
line, without  note  or  comment,  of  the  sermon  I  had  been  hear- 
ing. The  clergyman  from  whom  it  emanated,  maugre  his  use 
of  the  surplice  in  the  pulpit,  and  his  zeal  for  saints'  days,  was, 
I  was  informed,  not  properly  a  Puseyite,  but  rather  one  of  the 
class  of  stiff  High  Churchmen,  that  germinate  into  Puseyites 
when  their  creed  becomes  vital  within  them.  For  the  thorough 
High  Churchman  bears,  it  would  appear,  the  same  sort  of  re- 
semblance to  the  energetic  Puseyite,  that  a  dried  bulb  in  the 
florist's  drawer  docs  to  a  bulb  of  the  same  species  in  his  flower- 
garden,  when  swollen  with  the  vegetative  juices,  and  rich  in 
leaf  and  flower.  It  is  not  always  the  most  important  matters 
that  take  the  strongest  hold  of  the  mind.  The  sermon  and  the 
ludicrous  carvings,  linked  as  closely  together,  by  a  trick  of  the 
associative  faculty,  as  Cruikshank's  designs  in  Oliver  Twist 
with  the  letter-press  of  Dickens,  continued  to  haunt  me  through- 
out the  evening. 

I  lodged  within  a  stone-cast  of  the  terminus  of  the  Great 
Manchester  and  Birmingham  Railway.  I  could  hear  the  roar- 
ing of  the  trains  along  the  line,  from  morning  till  near  mid- 
day, and  during  the  whole  afternoon  ;  and,  just  as  the  evening 
was  setting  in,  I  sauntered  down  to  the  gate  by  which  a  return 
train  was  discharging  its  hundreds  of  passengers,  fresh  from 
the  Sabbath  amusements  of  the  country,  that  I  might  sec  how 
they  looked.  Tiierc  did  not  seem  much  of  enjoyment  aboui 
the  wearied  and  somewhat  draggled  groups :  they  wore,  on 
the  contrary,  rather  an  unhappy  physiognomy,  as  if  they  had 
missed  spending  the  day  quite  to  their  mindf,  and  were  now 


68-  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

remraing  sad  and  disappointed,  to  the  round  of  toil,  from 
which  it  ought  to  have  proved  a  sweet  interval  of  relief.  A 
congregation  just  dismissed  from  hearing  a  vigorous  evening 
discourse  would  have  borne,  to  a  certainty,  a  more  cheerfiil 
air.  There  was  not  much  actual  drunkenness  among  the 
crowd,  —  thanks  to  the  preference  which  the  Englishman  gives 
to  his  ale  over  ardent  spirits,  — not  a  tithe  of  what  I  would 
have  witnessed,  on  a  similar  occasion,  in  my  own  country.  A 
few  there  were,  however,  evidently  muddled ;  and  I  saw  one 
positive  scene.  A  young  man  considerably  in  liquor  had  quar- 
relled with  his  mistress,  and,  threatening  to  throw  himself  into 
the  Irwell,  off  he  had  bolted  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 
There  was  a  shriek  of  agony  from  the  young  woman,  and  a  cry 
of  "  stop  him,  stop  him,"  to  which  a  tall,  bulky  Englishman, 
of  the  true  John  Bull  type,  had  coolly  responded,  by  thrusting 
forth  his  foot  as  he  passed,  and  tripping  him  at  full  length  on 
the  pavement ;  and  for  a  few  minutes  all  was  hubbub  and 
■^jnfusion.  With,  however,  this  exception,  the  aspect  of  the 
lumerous  passengers  had  a  sort  of  animal  decency  about  it, 
which  one  might  in  vain  look  for  among  the  Sunday  travellers 
on  a  Scotch  railway.  Sunday  seems  greatly  less  connected 
with  the  fourth  commandment  in  the  humble  English  min(^ 
than  in  that  of  Scotland,  and  so  a  less  disreputable  portion  of 
the  people  go  abroad.  There  is  a  considerable  difference,  too, 
between  masses  of  men  simply  ignorant  of  religion,  and  masses 
of  men  broken  loose  from  it ;  and  the  Sabbath-contemning 
Scotch  belong  to  the  latter  category.  With  the  humble  Eng- 
lishman trained  up  to  no  regular  habit  of  church-going,  Sab- 
bath is  pudding-day,  and  clean-shirt-day,  and  a  day  for  lolling 
on  the  grass  opposite  the  sun,  and,  if  there  be  a  river  or  canal 
hard  by,  for  trying  how  the  gudgeons  bite,  or,  if  in  the  neigh- 
btrhoou  of  a  railway,  for  taking  a  short  trip  to  some  country 


ENGLAM)   AND   ITS    PEOPLE.  69 

inn,  famous  ftr  its  cakes  and  ale;  but  to  the  numble  Scot 
become  English  in  his  Sabbath  views,  the  day  is,  in  most 
cases,  a  time  of  sheer  recklessness  and  dissipation.  There  is 
much  truth  in  the  shrewd  remark  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  that 
the  Scotch,  once  metamorphosed  into  Englishmen,  make  very 
mischievous  Englishmen  indeed. 

Among  the  existing  varieties  of  the  genus  philanthropist,  — 
benevolent  men  bent  on  bettering  the  condition  of  the  masses, 
—  there  is  a  variety  who  would  fain  send  out  our  working  peo- 
ple to  the  country  on  Sabbaths,  to  become  happy  and  innocent 
in  smelling  primroses,  and  stringing  daisies  on  grass  stalks. 
An  excellent  scheme  theirs,  if  they  but  knew  it,  for  sinking  a 
people  into  ignorance  and  brutality,  —  for  filling  a  country  with 
gloomy  workhouses,  and  the  workhouses  with  unhappy  paupers. 
'T  is  pity  rather  that  the  institution  of  the  Sabbath,  in  its 
economic  bearings,  should  not  be  better  understood  by  the  utili- 
tarian. The  problem  which  it  furnishes  is  not  particularly  dif- 
ficult, if  one  could  be  but  made  to  understand,  as  a  first  step  in 
the  process,  that  it  is  really  worth  solving.  'The  mere  animal, 
that  has  to  pass  six  days  of  the  week  in  hard  labor,  benefits 
gpreatly  by  a  seventh  day  of  mere  animal  resi  and  enjoyment  • 
the  repose  according  to  its  nature  proves  of  signal  use  to  it,  just 
because  it  is  repose  according  to  its  nature.  But  man  is  not  a 
mere  animal :  what  is  best  for  the  ox  and  the  ass  is  not  best 
for  him;  and  in  order  to  degrade  him  into  a  poor  unintellect 
ual  slave,  over  whom  tyranny,  in  its  caprice,  may  trample 
rough-shod,  it  is  bi.l  necessary  to  tie  him  dowi,  animal-iike, 
during  his  six  working  days,  to  hard,  engrossing  labor,  and  to 
convert  the  seventh  into  a  day  of  Irivolous,  unthinking  relaxa- 
tion. Hi-.'ory  speaks  with  much  emphasis  on  the  point.  The 
old  despotic  Stuarts  were  tolerable  adepts  in  the  art  of  king 
craft,  and  Vnew  weL  vhat  they  were  doing  when  thej  backed 


70  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

with  their  a  ithority  the  Book  of  Sports.  The  merry,  unthink* 
iTig  serfs,  who,  early  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First,  danced 
on  Sabbaths  round  the  Maypole,  were  afterwards  the  ready 
tools  of  despotism,  and  fought  that  England  might  be  enslaved. 
The  Ironsides,  who,  in  the  cause  of  civil  and  religious  freedom, 
bore  them  down,  were  staunch  Sabbatarians. 

In  no  history,  however,  is  the  value  of  the  Sabbath  more 
strikingly  illustrated  than  in  that  of  the  Scotch  people  iuring 
the  seventeenth  and  the  larger  portion  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
turies.  Religion  and  the  Sabbath  were  their  sole  instructors, 
and  this  in  times  so  little  favorable  to  the  cultivation  of  mind, 
so  darkened  by  persecution  and  stained  with  blood,  that,  in  at 
least  the  earlier  of  these  centuries,  we  derive  our  knowledge 
of  the  character  and  amount  of  the  popular  intelligence  mainly 
from  the  death-testimonies  of  our  humbler  martyrs,  here  and 
there  corroborated  by  the  incidental  evidence  of  writers  such 
as  Burnet.*  In  these  noble  addresses  from  prison  and  scaffold, 
—  the  composition  of  men  drafted  by  oppression  almost  at  ran- 
dom from  out  the  general  mass,  —  we  see  how  vigorously  our 
Presbyterian  people  had  learned  to  think,  and  how  well  to  give 
their  thinking  expression.  In  the  quieter  times  which  followed 
the  Revolution,  the  Scottish  peasantry  existed  as  at  once  the 
most  provident  and  intellectual  in  Europe ;  and  a  moral  and 

*  Burnet,  afterwards  the  celebrated  Whig  Bishop,  was  one  of  six  divines 
sent  out  by  Archbishop  Leighton,  in  1670,  to  argue  tlie  Scotch  people 
into  Episcopacy.  But  the  mission  was  by  no  means  successful.  "  The 
people  of  the  country,"  says  Burnet,  "  came  generally  to  hear  U8,  though 
not  in  great  crowds.  We  were  indeed  amazed  to  see  a  poor  commonalty 
so  capable  to  argue  upon  points  of  government,  and  on  the  bounds  to  be 
set  to  the  power  of  princes  in  matters  of  religioa.  Upon  all  these  topics 
they  had  texts  of  Scripture  at  hand,  and  were  ready  with  their  answers 
to  anyhing  that  was  said  to  them.  This  measure  of  knowledge  wa*« 
spread  even  among  the  meanest  of  them,  —  their  cottagers  and  their  ser 
rants."     (Memoirs,  vol.  i.  p.  431.) 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  71 

instructed  people  pressed  outwards  beyond  the  i  arrow  boundt 
of  their  country,  and  rose  into  offices  of  trust  and  importance 
in  all  the  nations  of  the  world.  There  were  no  Societies  for 
the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge  in  those  days.  But  the 
Sabbath  was  kept  holy :  it  was  a  day  from  which  every  dissi- 
pating frivolity  was  excluded  by  a  stern  sense  of  duty.  The 
popular  mind,  with  weight  imparted  to  it  by  its  religious 
earnestness,  and  direction  by  the  pulpit  addresses  of  the  day, 
expatiated  on  matters  of  grave  import,  of  which  the  tendency 
was  to  concentrate  and  strengthen,  not  scatter  and  weaken,  the 
faculties  ;  and  the  secular  cogitations  of  the  week  came  to  bear, 
in  consequence,  a  Sabbath-day  stamp  of  depth  and  solidity. 
The  one  day  in  the  seven  struck  the  tone  for  the  other  six.  Our 
modern  apostles  of  popular  instruction  rear  up  no  such  men 
among  the  masses  as  were  developed  under  the  Sabbatarian 
system  in  Scotland.  Their  aptest  pupils  prove  but  the  loqua- 
cious gabbers  of  their  respective  workshops,  —  shallow  super- 
ficialists,  that  bear  on  the  surface  of  their  minds  a  thin  diffusion 
of  ill-remembered  facts  and  crude  theories ;  and  rarely  indeed 
do  we  see  them  rising  in  the  scale  of  society :  they  become 
Socialists  by  hundreds,  and  Chartists  by  thousands,  and  get 
no  higher  The  disseminator  of  mere  useful  knowledge  takes 
aim  at  the  popular  ignorance ;  but  his  inept  and  unscientific 
gunnery  does  not  include  in  its  calculations  the  parabo.ic  curve 
of  man's  spiritual  nature;  and  so,  aiming  direct  •  t  tP.e  rr.ark. 
be  aims  too  hnv,  and  the  charge  falls  short. 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


CHAPTER    IV. 

ftuii  Manchester  for  Wolverhampton.  —  Scenery  of  the  New  Red  Sand 
stone  ;  apparent  Repetition  of  Pattern.  —  The  frequent  Marshes  of  Eng- 
land ;  curiously  represented  in  the  National  Literature;  Influence  on 
the  National  Superstitions. —  Wolverhampton.  —  Peculiar  Aspect/of  the 
Dudley  Coal-field  ;  striking  Passage  in  its  History.  —  The  Rise  of  Bir- 
mingham into  a  great  Manufacturing  Town  an  Effect  of  the  Develop- 
ment of  its  Mineral  Treasures.  —  Upper  Ludlow  Deposit;  Aymestry 
Limestone  ;  both  Deposits  of  peculiar  Interest  to  the  Scotch  Geologist. 
—  The  Lingula  Lcwisii  and  Terebratida  Wllsoni.  —  General  Resem- 
blance of  the  Silurian  Fossils  to  those  of  the  Mountain  Limestone.  — 
First-born  of  the  Vertehrata  yet  known.  —  Order  of  Creation.  —  The 
Wren's  Nest.  —  Fossils  of  the  Wenlock  Limestone  ;  in  a  State  of  beauti- 
ful Keeping.  —  Anecdote.  —  Asaphus  Caudatus  ;  common,  it  would  seem, 
to  both  the  Silurian  and  Carboniferous  Rocks.  —  Limestone  Miners.  — 
Noble  Gallery  excavated  in  the  Hill. 

I  QuiTiED  Manchester  by  the  mornino"  train,  and  travelled 
through  a  flat  New  Red  Sandstone  district,  on  the  Birming- 
ham Railway,  for  about  eighty  miles.  One  finds  quite  the  sort 
of  country  here  for  travelling  over  by  steam.  If  one  misses 
seeing;  a  bit  of  landscape,  as  the  carriages  hurry  through,  and 
the  objects  in  the  foreground  look  dim  and  indistinct,  and  all  in 
motion,  as  if  seen  through  water,  it  is  sure  to  be  repeated  in 
the  course  of  a  few  miles,  and  ag-ain  and  a^ain  repeated.  I 
was  reminded,  as  we  hurried  along,  and  the  flat  country  opened 
and  spread  out  on  either  side,  of  webs  of  carpet  stuff'  nailed 
down  to  pieces  of  boarding,  and  presenting,  at  regular  distances, 
returns  of  the  same  rich  pattern.  Red  detached  houses  stand 
up  amid  the  green  fields  ;  little  bits  of  brick  villages  lie  grouped 
beside  cross  roads;    irregular  patches  of  wood  occupy  nooks 


ENGLAND   AND   ITS    PEOPLE. 


76 


and  comers ;  lines  of  poplars  rise  tall  and  taper  amid  strag- 
gling cottages  ;  and  then,  having  once  passed  houses,  villages, 
and  woods,  we  seem  as  if  we  had  to  pass  them  again  and 
again  ;  the  red  detached  houses  return,  the  bits  of  villages, 
the  woody  nooks  and  corners,  the  lines  of  taper  poplars  amid 
the  cottages ;  and  thus  the  repetitions  of  the  pattern  run  on 
and  on. 

In  a  country  so  level  as  England  there  must  be  many  i 
swampy  hollow  furnished  with  no  outlet  to  its  waters.  The 
bogs  and  marshes  of  the  midland  and  southern  counties  foimed 
of  old  the  natural  strongholds,  in  which  the  people,  in  times  of 
extremity,  sheltered  from  the  invader.  Alfred's  main  refuge, 
when  all  others  failed  him,  was  a  bog  of  Somersetshire.  When 
passing  this  morning  along  frequent  fields  of  osiers  and  wide- 
spread marshes,  bristling  with  thickets  of  bulrushes  and  reeds. 
I  was  led  to  think  of  what  had  never  before  occurred  to  me,  — 
the  considerable  amount  of  imagery  and  description  which  the 
poets  of  England  have  transferred  from  scenery  of  this  charac 
ter  into  thr  national  literature.  There  is  in  English  verse 
much  whibpering  of  osiers  beside  silent  streams,  and  much 
waving  of  o.;dges  over  quiet  waters.  Shakspeare  has  his  t  x« 
quisite  pictures  of  slow-gliding  currents, 

*•  Making  sweet  music  .vith  the  eaamelled  stonea. 
And  giving  gentle  l<isses  to  eacii  sedge 
They  overtake  in  their  lone  pilgrimage." 

And  Miltuii,  too,  of  water-nymphs 

♦•  Sitting  by  rushy  fringed  bank, 
Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier  dan'<  ; 

*•  Un<lcr  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 
In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  their  amber-di'opping  hair  ; 


T4  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    DF 

or  of  "  sighing  sent,"  by  the  "  parting  genius, 

"  From  haunted  spring  and  dale. 
Edged  with  poplar  pale." 

We  find  occasional  glimpses  of  the  same  dank  scenery  in  Col 
lins,  Cowper,  and  Crabbe  ;  and  very  frequent  ones,  in  c;:r  own 
times,  in  the  graphic  descriptions  of  Alfred  Tennysco  and 
Thomas  Hood. 

"  One  willow  o'er  the  river  wept. 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh  ; 
Above  in  the  wind  sported  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will ; 
And  far  through  the  marish  green,  and  still. 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow." 

Not  less  striking  is  at  least  one  of  the  pictures  drawn  oy 
Hood:  — 

"  The  coot  was  swimming  in  the  reedy  pool. 
Beside  the  water-hen,  so  soon  affrighted  ; 
And  in  the  weedy  moat,  the  heron,  fond 
Of  solitude,  alighted  ; 
The  moping  heron,  motionless  and  stiff. 
That  on  a  stone  as  silently  and  stilly 
Stood,  an  apparent  sentind,  as  if 
To  guard  the  water-lily." 

The  watery  flats  of  the  country  liave  had  also  their  influ- 
ence on  the  popular  superstitions.  The  delusive  tapers  that 
spring  up  a-nights  from  stagnant  bogs  and  fens  must  have  been 
of  frequent  appearance  in  the  more  marshy  districts  of  Eng- 
land;  and  we  accordingly  find,  that  of  all  the  national  goblins 
the  goblin  of  the  wandering  night-fire,  whether  recognized  as 
Jack-of-the-Lantern  or  Wiil-of-the-AV  isp,  was  one  of  the  best 
knovTi. 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  75 

"  She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said. 
And  he  by  friar's  lantern  led.'* 

Or,  as  the  exquisite  poet  who  produced  this  couplet  more  elab- 
orately describes  the  apparition  in  his  "  Paradise  Lest," 

♦'  A  wandering  fire, 
Compact  of  unctuous  vapor,  which  the  night 
K'ndles  through  agitation  to  a  flame. 
Which  oft,  they  say,  some  evil  spirit  attends. 
Hovering  and  blazing  with  delusive  light. 
Leading  the  amazed  night-wanderer  from  his  way 
Through  bogs  and  mires,  and  oft  through  pond  or  pool. 
There  swallowed  up  and  lost,  from  succor  far." 

Scarce  inferior  to  even  the  description  of  Milton  is  that  of 
Collins  :  — 

"  Ah,  homely  swains  !  your  homeward  steps  ne'er  lose  ; 

Let  not  dank  Will  mislead  you  on  the  heath  : 
Dancing  in  mirky  night,  o'er  fen  and  lake. 

He  glows,  to  draw  you  downward  to  your  death. 
In  his  bewitched,  low,  marshy  willow-brake. 

What  though,  ftir  off  from  some  dark  dell  espied. 
His  glimmering  mazes  cheer  the  excursive  sight  ? 

Yet  turn,  ye  wanderers,  turn  your  steps  aside. 
Nor  trust  the  guidance  of  that  faithless  light  ; 

For  watchful,  lurking,  'mid  the  unrustling  reed. 
At  these  mirk  hours,  the  wily  monster  lies. 

And  listens  oft  to  hear  the  passing  steed. 
And  frequent  round  him  rolls  his  sullen  eyes. 
If  chance  his  savage  wrath  may  some  weak  wretch  surprise." 

One  soon  wearies  of  the  monotony  of  railway  travelling,  — 
of  hurrying  through  a  country,  stage  after  stage,  without  inci- 
dent or  advantage  ;  and  so  I  felt  quite  glad  enough,  when  the 
train  stopped  at  Wolverhampton,  to  find  myself  once  i  \ore  at 
freedom  and  afoot.  There  will  be  an  end,  surely,  to  all  works 
of  travels  when  the  railway  system  of  the  world  shall  be  com- 


7b 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


pleted.  I  passed  direct  through  Wolverhampton,  -  a  laige  bu» 
rather  uninteresting  assemblage  of  red-brick  houses,  copped 
wi'  I  red-tile  roofs,  slippered  with  red-tile  floors,  and  neither 
in  Its  component  '^arts  nor  in  its  grouping  differing  in  any  per- 
ceptible degree  from  several  scores  of  the  other  assemblages  of 
red-brick  houses  that  form  the  busier  market-towns  of  Eng- 
land. The  town  has  been  built  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Dudley  coal-basin,  on  an  incoherent  lower  deposit  of  New  Red 
Sandstone,  unfitted  for  the  purposes  of  the  stone-mason,  but 
peculiarly  well  suited,  in  some  of  its  superficial  argillaceous 
beds,  for  those  of  the  brick-maker.  Hence  the  prevailing  color 
and  character  of  the  place  ;  and  such,  in  kind,  are  the  circum- 
stances that  impart  to  the  great  majority  of  English  towns  so 
very  different  an  aspect  from  that  borne  by  our  Scottish  ones. 
They  are  the  towns  of  a  brick  and  tile  manufacturing  country, 
rich  in  coal  and  clay,  but  singularly  poor  in  sandstone  quar- 
ries. 

I  took  the  Dudley  road,  and  left  the  scattered  suburbs  of  the 
town  but  a  few  hundred  yards  behind  me,  when  the  altered 
appearance  of  the  country  gave  evidence  that  1  had  quitted  the 
New  Red  Sandstone,  and  had  entered  on  the  Coal  Measures. 
On  the  right,  scarce  a  gun-shot  from  the  way-side,  there 
stretched  away  a  rich  though  comparatively  thinly-inhabited 
country,  —  green,  undulated,  lined  thickly,  lengthwise  and 
athwart,  with  luxuriant  hedge-rows,  sparsely  sprinkled  with 
farm-houses,  and  over-canopied  this  morning  by  a  clear  blue 
sky;  while  on  the  left,  far  as  the  eye  could  penetrate  through 
a  mud-colored  atmosphere  of  smoke  and  culm,  there  spread 
out  a  barren  uneven  wilderness  of  slag  and  shale,  the  debris 
of  lime-kilns  and  smelting  works,  and  of  coal  and  ironstone 
pits  ;  and  amid  the  dun  haze  there  stood  up  what  seemed  a 
onJDUois  city  of  fire-belching  furnaces  and  smoke-vomiting 


ENGLAIME    AND    ITS    PEOl  Lb.  /  / 

chimneys,  blent  with  niirnerous  groups  of  little  dingy  -uild- 
ings,  the  dwellings  of  iron-smelters  and  miners.  Wherever 
(he  New  Red  Sandstone  extends,  the  country  wears  a  sleek 
unbroken  skin  of  green  ;  wherever  the  Coal  Measures  spread 
fiway,  lake-like,  from  the  lower  edges  of  this  formation,  all  i« 
verdureless,  broken,  and  gray.  The  coloring  of  the  two  form- 
itions  could  be  scarcely  better  defined  in  a  geological  map 
than  here  on  the  face  of  the  landscape.  There  is  no  such 
utter  ruin  of  the  surface  in  our  mining  districts  in  Scotland, 
The  rubbish  of  the  subterranean  workings  is  scarce  at  all 
KufTered  to  encroach,  save  in  widely-scattered  hillocks,  on  the 
arable  superficies  ;  and  these  hiUocks  the  indefatigable  agricul- 
turist is  ever  levelling  and  carrying  away,  to  make  way  for  the 
plough  ;  whereas,  so  entirely  has  the  farmer  been  beaten  from 
off  the  field  here,  and  so  thickly  do  the  heaps  cumber  the  sur- 
face, that  one  might  almost  imagine  the  land  had  been  seized 
IR  the  remote  past  by  some  mortal  sickness,  and,  after  vomit- 
ing out  its  bowels,  had  lain  stone-dead  ever  since.  The  labor- 
ing inhabitants  of  this  desert  —  a  rude,  improvident,  Cyclopean 
race,  indifferent  to  all  .?ave  the  mineral  treasures  of  the  soil  — 
are  rather  graphically  designated  in  the  neighboring  districts, 
where  I  found  them  exceedingly  cheaply  rated,  as  "the  lie- 
wasters.''  Some  six  or  eight  centuries  ago,  the  Dudley  coal- 
field existed  as  a  wild  fores:,  in  which  a  few  semi-barbarous 
iron-smelters  and  charcoal-burners  carried  on  their  solitary 
labors  ;  and  which  was  n^markable  chiefly  for  a  seam  of  coal 
thirty  feet  in  thickness,  which,  like  some  of  the  coal-seams  of 
the  United  States,  cropped  out  at  the  surface,  and  was  wrought 
among  the  trees  in  the  open  air.  A  small  colony  of  workers  in 
iron  of  various  kinds  settled  in  the  neighborhood,  and  their 
congregated  forges  and  cottage-dwellings  formed  a  little  noit^y 
lamlet  a  lud  the  woodlands.     The  miner  explored,  to  greatei 


T8  '  FIKST    IMPRESSIO;.      .»? 

and  stiL  greattr  depths,  the  mineral  treasures  of  the  coal-field, 
th(;  ever-resounding,  ever-smoking  village  added  house  to  house 
and  forge  to  forge,  as  the  fuel  and  the  ironstone  heaps  accumu- 
lated ;  till  at  length  the  three  thick  bands  of  dark  ore,  and  the 
ten-yard  coal-seam  of  the  basin,  though  restricted  to  a  space 
greatly  less  in  area  than  some  of  our  Scottish  lakes,  produced, 
out  of  the  few  congregated  huts,  the  busy  town  of  Birming- 
ham, with  its  two  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  inhabitants. 
And  as  the  rise  of  the  place  has  been  connected  with  the  devel- 
opment of  the  mineral  treasures  of  its  small  but  exceedingly 
rich  coal-field,  their  exhaustion,  unless  there  open  up  to  it 
new  fields  of  industry,  must  induce  its  decline.  There  is  a 
day  coming,  though  a  still  distant  one,  when  the  miner  shall 
have  done  with  this  wilderness  of  debris  and  chimneys,  ju.st 
as  the  charcoal-burner  had  done  with  it  when  the  woodlands 
were  exhausted  ages  ago,  or  as  the  farmer  had  done  with  it  at 
a  considerably  later  period  ;  and  when  it  shall  exist  as  an  unin- 
habited desert,  full  of  gloomy  pitfalls,  half-hidden  by  a  stunted 
vegetation, and  studded  with  unseemly  ruins  of  brick;  and  the 
neighboring  city,  like  a  beggared  spendthrift,  that,  after  having 
run  through  his  patrimony,  continues  to  reside  in  the  house  of 
his  ancestors,  shall  have,  in  all  probability,  to  shut  up  many  an 
apartment,  and  leave  many  a  forsaken  range  of  offices  and  out- 
houses to  sink  itito  decay. 

The  road  began  to  ascend  from  the  low  platform  of  the  coal- 
field, along  the  shoulder  of  a  green  hill  that  rises  some  six  oi 
seven  hundred  feet  over  the  level  of  the  sea,  —  no  inconsider- 
ible  elevation  in  this  part  of  the  kingdom.  There  were  no 
longer  heaps  of  dark-colored  debris  on  either  hand  ;  and  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  in  England,  where  there  had  been  a  cutting 
into  the  acclivity,  to  lower  the  angle  of  the  ascent,  a  section  of 
rock  much  resembling  our  Scotch  grauwacke  of  the  southera 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  79 

co'inties,'  Unlike  jur  Scotch  grauwacke,  however,  I  found 
that  ahriDSl  every  fragment  of  the  mass  contained  its  fossil, 
—  some  ill-preserved  terebratula  or  leptaena,  or  sor/.e  sorely 
weatherel  coralline  :  but  all  was  doubtful  and  obscure  ;  and  I 
looked  round  me,  though  in  vain,  for  some  band  of  lime  com- 
pact enough  to  exhibit  in  its  sharp-edged  casts  the  character- 
istic peculiarities  of  the  group.  A  spruce  wagoner,  in  a  blue 
frock  much  roughened  with  needle-work,  came  whistling  down 
the  hill  beside  his  team,  and  I  inquired  of  him  whether  there 
were  limestone  quarries  in  the  neighborhood.  "  Yez,  yez,  lots 
of  lime  just  afore  thee,"  said  the  wagoner;  "can't  miss  the 
way,  if  thou  lookest  to  the  hill-side."  I  went  on  for  a  few 
hundred  yards,  and  found  an  extensive  quarry  existing  as  a 
somewhat  dreary-looking  dell,  deeply  scooped  out  of  the  accliv- 
ity on  the  left,  with  heaps  of  broken  grass-grown  debris  on  the 
one  side  of  the  excavation,  and  on  the  other  a  precipitous  front 
of  gray  lichened  rock,  against  which  there  leaned  a  line  of  open 
kilns  and  a  ruinous  hut. 

The  quarriers  were  engaged  in  playing  mattock  and  lever  on 
an  open  front  in  the  upper  part  of  the  dell,  which,  both  from 
its  deserted  appearance  and  the  magnitude  of  its  weather- 
stained  workings,  appeared  to  be  much  less  extensively  wrought 
than  at  some  former  period.  I  felt  a  peculiar  interest  in  ex- 
amining the  numerous  fossils  of  the  deposit,  —  such  an  interest 
as  that  experienced  by  the  over-curious  Calender  in  the  Ara- 
bian Nights,  when  first  introduced  into  the  hall  of  the  win^^ed 
horse,  from  which,  though  free  to  roam  over  all  the  rest  of  the 
palace,  with  its  hundred  gates  and  its  golden  doors,  he  had 
been  long  sedulously  excluded.  I  had  now  entered,  for  the 
first  time,  into  a  chamber  of  the  grand  fossiliferous  museum, — 
the  great  stone-record  edifice  of  our  island,  —  of  which  I  had 
no;  th'  ight  <he  less   fiequcntly  from   the  circumstance  tlia/ J 


80  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

was  better  acquainted  with  the  chamber  that  lies  directly  ovei 
head,  if  I  may  so  speak,  with  but  a  thin  floor  between,  than 
with  any  other  in  the  erection.  I  had  been  laboring  i,)r  years 
in  the  Lower  Old  Red  Sandstone,  and  had  acquainted  myself 
with  its  winged  and  plate-covered,  its  enamelled  and  tuberclo- 
roughened  ichthyolites ;  but  there  is  no  getting  down  in  Scot- 
land into  the  cellarage  of  the  edifice  :  it  is  as  thoroughly  a 
mystery  to  the  mere  Scotch  geoloe'ist  as  the  cellarage  of 
Todgers'  in  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  of  which  a  stranger  kept  the 
key,  was  to  the  inmates  of  that  respectable  tavern.  Here,  how- 
ever, I  had  got  fairly  into  the  cellar  at  last.  The  frontage  of 
fossiliferous'grauwacke-looking  rock,  by  the  way-side,  which  1 
had  just  examined,  is  known,  thanks  to  Sir  Roderick  Murchi- 
son,  to  belong  to  the  Upper  Ludlow  deposit,  —  the  Silurian 
base  on  which  the  Old  Red  Sandstone  rests ;  and  I  had  now 
.got  a  story  further  down,  and  was  among  the  Aymestry  Lime- 
stones. 

The  first  fossil  I  picked  up  greatly  resembled  in  size  and 
form  a  pistol-bullet.  It  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  charac- 
teristic shells  of  the  formation,  —  the  Terebratula  Wilsoni. 
Nor  was  the  second  I  found  —  the  Lingula  Lewisii,  a  bivalve 
formed  like  the  blade  of  a  wooden  shovel  —  less  characteristic. 
The  Lingula  still  exists  in  some  two  or  three  species  in  the 
iistant  Moluccas.  There  was  but  one  of  these  known  in  the 
times  of  Cuvier,  the  Lingvla  anatina ;  and  so  unlike  was  il 
deemed  by  the  naturalist  to  any  of  its  contemporary  moUusca 
that  of  the  single  species  he  formed  not  only  a  distinct  genus, 
but  also  an  independent  class.  The  existing,  like  the  fossil 
shell,  resembles  the  blade  of  a  wooden  shovel ;  but  the  shovel 
has  also  a  handle,  and  in  this  mainly  consists  its  dissimilarity 
to  any  other  bivalve :  a  cylindrical  cartilaginous  stem  or  foot- 
«/alk  elevates  it  some  three  or  four  inches  over  the  rocky  base 


!NGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  81 

fo  which  it  is  ttached,  just  as  the  handle  of  a  shovel,  stuck 
half  a  foot  int5  the  earth,  at  the  part  where  the  hand  grasps  u, 
would  elevatf,'  the  blade  over  the  surface,  or  as  the  stem  of  a 
tulip  elevates  the  flower  over  the  soil.  A  community  of  Lin« 
gulae  must  resemble,  in  their  deep-sea  haunts,  a  group  of  Lilli- 
putian shovels,  reversed  by  the  laborers  to  indicate  their  work 
completed,  or  a  bed  of  half-folded  tulips,  raised  on  stiff",  dingy 
stems,  and  exhibiting  flattened  petals  of  delicate  green.  I  am 
not  aware  that  any  trace  of  the  cartilaginous  foot-stalk  has 
been  yet  detected  in  fossil  Lingulse ;  —  like  those  of  this  quarry 
they  are  mere  shovel-blades  divested  of  the  handles :  but  in  al. 
that  survives  of  them,  or  could  be  expected  to  survive,  —  the 
calcareous  portion,  —  they  are  identical  in  type  with  the  living 
mollusc  of  the  Moluccas.  What  most  strikes  in  the  globe- 
shaped  terebratula,  their  contemporary,  is  the  singularly  an- 
tique character  of  the  ventral  margin  :  it  seems  moulded  in 
the  extreme  of  an  ancient  fashion,  long  since  gone  out.  In- 
stead of  running  continuously  round  in  one  plane,  like  the 
margins  of  our  existing  cockle,  venus,  or  mactra,  so  as  to  form, 
when  the  valves  are  shut,  a  rectilinear  line  of  division,  it  pre- 
sents in  the  centre  a  huge  dovetail,  so  that  the  lower  valve 
exhibits  in  its  middle  front  a  square  gateway,  which  we  see 
occupied,  when  the  mouth  is  closed,  by  a  portcullis-like  pro- 
jection, dependent  from  the  margin  of  the  upper  valve.  Mar- 
gins of  this  antique  form  characterize  some  of  the  terebratulae 
of  even  the  Chalk,  and  the  spirifcrs  of  the  Carboniferous  Lin)e- 
stone  ;  but  in  none  of  the  comparatively  modern  shells  is  the 
square  portcullis-shaped  indentation  so  strongly  indicated  as  in 
the  Terebratula  Wihoiii.  I  picked  up  several  other  fossils  in 
the  quarry :  the  Orthis  orbicularis  and  Orthis  lunata ;  the 
Atrypa  ajfinis ;  several  ill-preserved  portions  of  orthoceratite, 
belcnging  chiefly,  so  far  as  their  state  of  keeping  enabled  m« 


82 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


tn  decide,  to  the  Orthoceras  bullatum ;  a  small,  imperfectly 
conical  cora  ,  that  more  resembled  the  Stromatopora  concentrku 
of  the  Wen.ock  rocks,  than  any  of  the  other  Silurian  corah 
figTjred  by  Murchison ;  and  a  few  minute  sprigs  of  the  Favosites 
polymorpha.  The  concretionary  character  of  the  limestone  of 
the  deposit  has  militated  against  the  preservation  of  the  larger 
organisms  which  it  encloses.  Of  the  smaller  shells,  many  are 
in  a  beautiful  state  of  keeping  :  like  some  of  the  comparatively 
modern  shells  of  the  Oolite,  they  still  retain  unaltered  the  sil- 
very lustre  of  the  nacre,  and  present  outlines  as  sharp  and  well 
defined,  with  every  delicate  angle  unworn,  and  every  minute 
stria  undefaced,  as  if  inhabited  but  yesterday  by  the  living 
molluscs;  whereas  most  of  the  bulkier  fossils,  from  the  broken 
and  detached  nature  of  the  rock,  —  a  nodular  limestone  em- 
bedded in  strata  of  shale,  —  exist  as  mere  fragments.  What 
perhaps  first  strikes  the  eye  is  the  deep-sea  character  of  the 
deposit,  and  its  general  resemblance  to  the  Mountain  Lime- 
stone. Nature,  though  she  dropped  between  the  times  of  the 
Silurian  and  Carboniferous  oceans  many  of  her  genera,  and, 
with  but  a  few  marked  exceptions,  all  her  species,=^  seems  to 
have  scarce  at  all  altered  the  general  types  after  which  the 
productions  of  both  oceans  were  moulded. 

I  could  find  in  this  quarry  of  the  Aymestry  Limestone  no 
trace  of  aught  higher  than  the  Cephalopoda,  —  none  of  those 
plates,  scales,  spines,  or  teeth,  indicative  of  the  vertebrate  ani- 
mals, which  so  abound  in  the  Lower  Old  Red  Sandstones  of 
Scotland.     And  yet  the  vertebrata  seem  to  have  existed  at  the 

*  "  Upwards  of  eight  hundred  extinct  species  of  animals  have  been 
described  as  belonging  to  the  earliest  or  Protozoic  and  Silurian  period 
and  of  these,  only  about  one  hundred  are  found  also  in  the  overlying 
Devonian  series  ;  m  bile  but  fifteen  are  common  to  the  whole  Palaeozoic 
period,  and  not  one  )xtends  beyond  it."     {Ansted,  1844.) 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE  83 

time.  The  famous  bone-bed  of  the  Upper  Sil  rian  system, 
with  its  well-marked  ichthyolitic  remains,  occurs  in  the  Upper 
Ludlow  Rock,  -  -the  deposit  immediately  over  head.  We  find 
it  shelved  high,  it"  I  may  so  speak,  in  the  first  story  of  the  sys- 
tem, reckoning-  from  the  roof  downwards ;  the  calcareous  de- 
posit in  which  this  hill-side  quarry  has  been  ho. lowed  forms  a 
second  story  ;  the  Lower  Ludlow  Rock  a  third ;  and  in  yet  a 
fourth,  the  Wenlock  Limestone:  just  one  remove  over  the 
Lower  Silurians,  —  for  the  Wenlock  Shale  constitutes  the  base 
story  of  the  upper  division,  —  there  have  been  found  the  re- 
mains of  a  fish,  or  rather  minute  portions  of  the  remains  of  a 
fish,  the  most  ancient  yet  known  to  the  geologist.  "  Take  the 
Lower  Silurians  all  over  the  globe,"  says  Sir  Roderick  Murchi- 
son,  in  a  note  to  the  writer  of  these  chapters,  which  bears  date 
no  further  back  than  last  July,  "and  they  have  never  yet 
oflTered  the  trace  of  a  fish."  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  ich- 
thyolite  of  the  Wenlock  Limestone — the  first-born  of  the  ver- 
tebrata  whose  birth  and  death  seem  entered  in  the  geologic 
register  —  has  not  been  made  the  subject  of  a  careful  memoir, 
illustrated  by  a  good  engraving.  One  is  naturally  desirous  to 
know  all  that  can  be  known  regarding  the  first  entrance  in  the 
drama  of  existence  of  a  new  class  in  creation,  and  to  have  the 
place  and  date  which  the  entry  bears  in  the  record  fairly  estab- 
lished. The  evidence,  however,  though  not  ye:  made  patent 
to  the  geological  brotherhood,  seems  to  \e  solid.  It  has  at 
least  satisfied  a  writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Revieio  of  last  year, 
generally  recognized  as  one  of  the  master-geologists  of  the  age. 
"We  have  seen,"  says  Mr.  Sedgwick,  the  understood  authoi 
of  the  article,  "  characteristic  portions  of  a  fish  derived  from  the 
shales  alternating  with  the  Wenlock  Limestone.  This  ichthy- 
olitc,  to  speak  in  the  technical  language  of  Agassiz,  undoubt- 
edly belongs  to  the  Cestraciont  family,  of  the  Flaccid  order. — 


84  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

proving  to  demonstration  that  the  oldest  known  fossil  fish 
belongs  to  the  highest  type  of  that  division  of  the  vertebrata.' 
A  strange  debut  this,  and  of  deep  interest  to  the  student  of 
nature.  The  veil  of  mystery  must  forever  rest  over  the  act  of 
creation;  but  it  is  something  to  know  of  its  order,  —  to  know 
that,  as  exhibited  in  the  great  geologic  register,  graven,  like 
.(he  decalogue  of  old,  on  tables  of  stone,  there  is  an  analogy 
maintained,  that  indicates  identity  o^  style  with  the  order  speci- 
fied in  the  Mosaic  record  as  that  observed  by  the  Creator  in 
producing  the  scene  of  things  to  which  we  ourselves  belong. 
In  both  records,  —  the  sculptured  and  the  written,  —  periods  of 
creative  energy  are  indicated  as  alternating  with  periods  of 
rest,  —  days  in  which  the  Creator  labored,  with  nights  in 
which  He  ceased  from  his  labors,  again  to  resume  them  in  the 
morning.  According  to  both  records,  higher  and  lower  exist- 
ences were  called  into  being  successively,  not  simultaneously ; 
—  according  to  both,  after  each  interval  of  repose,  the  succeed- 
ing period  of  activity  witnessed  loftier  and  yet  loftier  efforts  of 
production;  —  according  to  both,  though  in  the  earlier  stages 
there  was  incompleteness  in  the  scale  of  existence,  there  was 
yet  no  imperfection  in  the  individual  existences  of  which  the 
scale  was  composed  ;  —  at  the  termination  of  the  first,  as  of  the 
last  day  of  creation,  all  in  its  kind  was  good.  Ere  any  of  the 
higher  natures  existed, 

•'  God  saw  that  all  was  good. 
When  even  and  morn  recorded  the  third  day." 

I  quitted  the  quarry  in  the  hill-side,  and  walked  on  through 
the  village  of  Sedgley,  towards  a  second  and  much  more  strik- 
ing hill,  well  known  to  geologists  and  lovers  of  the  picturesque 
as  the  "Wren's  Nest."  A  third  hill,  that  of  Dudley,  beautifully 
wooded  and  capped  by  its  fine  old  castle,  lies  direct  in  the  same 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


85 


line  •  so  tli-.t  the  three  hills  take.i  together  form  a  chain  of 
eminences,  which  run  diagonally,  for  some  four  or  five  miles, 
into  the  m>  Idle  of  the  coal-basin  ;  and  which,  rising  high  from 
the  surrou-  ding  level,  resemble  steep-sided  islets  in  an  Alpine 
lake,  f*  is  a  somewhat  curious  circumstance,  that  while  the 
.^aelos'^g  shores  of  the  basin  are  formed  of  the  Lower  New  Red 
Sandstone,  and  the  basin  itself  of  the  Upper  and  Lower  Coal 
Measures,  these  three  islets  are  all  Silurian;  the  first,  —  that  of 
Sedgley,  —  which  I  had  just  quitted,  presenting  in  succession 
the  Upper  Ludlow  Rock  and  Aymestry  Limestone,  with  some 
of  the  inferior  deposits  on  which  these  rest ;  and  the  second 
and  third  the  Wenlock  Shale  and  Wenlock  Limestone.  The 
"  Wren's  Nest,"  as  I  approached  it  this  day  along  green  lanes 
and  over  quiet  fields,  fringed  with  trees,  presented  the  appear- 
ance of  some  bold  sea-promontory,  crowned  atop  with  stunted 
wood,  and  flanked  by  a  tall,  pale-gray  precipice,  continuous  as  a^ 
rampart  for  a  full  half-mile.  But,  to  borrow  from  one  of  Byron's' 
descriptions, 

'    "  There  is  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  corn-fields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Rising  from  rustic  roofs." 

Such  is  the  profile  of  the  hill  on  both  sides.  Seen  in  front,  it 
presents  the  appearance  of  a  truncated  dome  ;  while  atop  we 
find  it  occupied  by  an  elliptical,  crater-like  hollow,  that  has 
been  grooved  deep,  by  the  hand  of  Nature,  along  the  flat  sum- 
mit, so  as  to  form  a  huge  nest,  into  which  the  gigantic  roc 
of  eastern  story  might  drop  a  hundred  such  eggs  as  the  one 
familiar  to  the  students  of  the  great  voyager  Sinbad.  And 
hence  the  name  of  the  eminence.  John  Bull,  making  merry, 
in  one  of  his  humorous  moods,  with  its  imi>osing  greatness, 
8 


86  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

has  termed  it  the  "  Wren's  Nest."  I  came  up  to  its  gray  lines 
of  slopmg-  precipice  and  found  them  so  thickly  charged  wit  ji 
their  sepulchral  tablets  and  pictorial  epitaphs,  that,  like  the 
walls  of  some  Egyptian  street  of  tombs,  almost  every  square 
yard  bears  its  own  lengthened  inscription.  These  sloping 
precipices,  situated  as  they  now  are  in  central  England,  once 
formed  a  deep-sea  bottom,  far  out  of  reach  of  land,  whose 
green  recesses  were  whitened  by  innumerable  corals  and  coral- 
lines,  amid  which  ancient  shells,  that  loved  the  profounder 
depths,  terebratula,  leptjena,  and  spirifer,  lay  anchored  ;  while 
innumerable  trilobites  crept  sluggishly  above  zoophyte  and 
mollusc,  on  the  thickly-inhabited  platform ;  and  the  orthoceras 
and  the  bellerophon  floated  along  the  surface  high  over  head. 
A  strange  story,  surely,  but  not  more  strange  than  true  :  in  at 
least  the  leading  details  there  is  no  possibility  of  mistaking  the 
purport  of  the  inscriptions. 

The  outer  front  of  precipice  we  find  composed  of  carbonate 
of  lime,. alternating  with  thin  layers  of  a  fine-grained  alumi- 
nous  shale,  which  yields  to  the  weather,  betraying,  in  every 
more  exposed  portion  of  the  rock,  the  organic  character  of  the 
lime-stone.  Wherever  the  impalpable  shale  has  been  washed 
away,  we  find  the  stone  as  sharply  sculptured  beneath  as  a 
Chinese  snuff-box;  with  this  difference,  however,  that  the  fig- 
ures are  more  nicely  relieved,  and  grouped  much  more  thickly 
together.  We  ascertain  that  every  component  particle  of  the 
roughened  ground  on  which  they  lie,  even  the  most  minute,  is 
organic.  It  is  composed  of  portions  of  the  most  diminutive 
zoophytes, —  retipora,  or  festinella,  or  the  microscopic  joints  of 
thread-like  crinoideal  tentacula  ;  while  the  bolder  figures  that 
stand  up  in  high  relief  over  it  are  delicately  sculptured  shells 
of  antique  type  and  proportions,  Crustacea  of  the  trilobite  fam- 
ily, corals  massive  or  branched,  gracefvl  gnrgonia,  and    tha 


ENGLAN'P    AND    ITS    PEOPI-E.  97 

Btems  and  pelvic  bulbs  of  crinoidea.  The  impalpable  shales 
of  tho  hill  seem  to  have  been  deposited  from  above,  —  the  soil 
of  aluminous  shores  carried  far  by  the  sea,  and  thrown  down 
in  the  calm  on  beds  of  zoophytes  and  shells  ;  whereas  the  lime 
appears  to  hpve  been  elaborated,  not  deposited  :  it  grew  upon 
the  spot  slowly  and  imperceptibly  as  age  succeeded  age,  —  a 
secretion  of  anunal  life. 

After  pa«!smg  slowly  around  the  hill,  here  striking  off  a 
shell,  there  disinterring  a  trilobite,  —  here  admiring  some  huge 
mass  of  chain-coral,  that,  even  when  in  its  recent  state,  I  could 
not  have  raised  from  the  ground,  —  there  examining,  with  the 
assistance  of  the  lens,  the  minute  meshes  of  some  net-like 
festinella,  scarce  half  a  nail's  breadth  in  area,  —  I  sat  me  down 
in  the  sunshine  in  the  opening  of  a  deserted  quarry,  hollowed 
in  the  dome-like  front  of  the  hill,  amid  shells  and  corallines 
that  had  been  separated  from  the  shaly  matrix  by  the  disin- 
tegrating influences  of  the  weather.  The  organisms  lay  as 
thickly  around  me  as  recent  shells  and  corals  on  a  tropical 
beach.  The  labors  of  Murchison  had  brought  me  acquainted 
with  their  forms,  and  with  the  uncouth  names  given  them  in 
this  late  age  of  the  world,  so  many  long  creations  after  they 
had  been  dead  and  buried,  and  locked  up  in  rock  ;  but  they 
were  new  to  me  in  their  actually  existing  state  as  fossils  ;  and 
the  buoyani  delight  with  which  I  squatted  among  them,  glass 
in  hand,  to  examine  and  select,  made  me  smile  a  moment  after, 
when  I  bethought  me  that  my  little  boy  Bill  could  have  shown 
scarce  greater  eagerness,  when  set  down,  for  the  first  time,  in 
his  third  summer,  amid  the  shells  and  pebbles  of  the  sea-shore. 
But  I  daresay  most  of  my  readers,  if  transported  for  a  time  to 
the  ocean  shores  of  Mars  or  of  Venus,  would  manifest  some 
Buch  eagerness  in  ascertaining  the  types  in  which,  in  these 
'emote  planets,  the  Creator  exhibits  life.     And  here,  strewed 


88  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

thickly  around  me,  were  the  shells  and  corals  of  the  Silurian 
ocean,-  -an  ocean  quite  as  dissimilar  in  its  productions  to  that 
of  the  i)resent  day,  as  the  oceans  of  either  Mars  or  Venus.  Ii 
takes  a  great  deal  to  slacken  the  zeal  of  some  pursuits.  * 
have  been  told  by  a  relative,  now  deceased, —  a  man  strongly 
imbued  vi^ith  a  taste  for  natural  history,  who  fought  under 
Abercromby  in  Egypt,  —  that  though  the  work  was  rather 
warm  on  the  day  he  first  leaped  ashore  on  that  celebrated 
land,  and  the  beach  somewhat  cumbered  by  the  slain,  he  could 
not  avoid  casting  a  glance  at  the  white  shells  which  mingled 
with  the  sand  at  his  feet,  to  see  whether  they  greatly  difTered 
from  those  of  his  own  country ;  and  that  one  curious  shell, 
which  now  holds  an  honored  place  in  my  small  collection,  he 
found  time  to  transfer,  amid  the  sharp  whizzing  of  the  bullets, 
to  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

I  filled  a  small  box  with  minute  shells  and  corals,  —  terebra- 
tulae  of  some  six  or  eight  distinct  species,  a  few  leptaense  and 
orthes,  a  singularly  beautiful  astrea,  figured  by  Murchison  as 
Astrea  ananas,  or  the  pine-apple  astrea,  several  varieties  of 
cyathophyllum,  and  some  two  or  three  species  of  porites  and 
limaria.  To  some  of  the  corals  I  found  thin  mat-like  zoophytes 
of  the  character  of  flustrse  attached  ;  to  others,  what  seemed 
small  serpulse.  Out  of  one  mass  of  shale  I  disinterred  the 
head  of  a  stone  lily,  —  the  Cyathocrinites  pyriformis ,  —  beauti 
fully  preserved  ;  in  a  second  mass  I  found  the  fully-expande( 
pelvis  and  arms  of  a  different  genus,  —  the  Acti7iocrinites  vw- 
niliformis,  —  but  it  fell  to  pieces  ere  I  could  extricate  it.  I 
was  more  successful  in  detaching  entire  a  fine  specimen  of 
what  I  find  figured  by  Murchison,  though  with  a  doubtf'il  note 
of  interrogation  attached,  as  a  gorgonia  or  sea-fan.  1  found 
much  pleasure,  too,  in  acquainting  myself,  though  the  speci 
raens   were  not  particularly  fine,  with   disjointed  portion.s  of 


ENGLAND"  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


89 


iTiIob  tes.  —  now  a  head  turned  up,  —  now  the  caudlt  portion 
of  the  shell,  exhibiting  the  inner  side  and  abdominal  rim, — 
now  a  few  detached  joints.  In  some  of  the  specimens, —  inva- 
riably headless  ones,  —  the  body  seems  scarce  larger  than  tha* 
of  a  common  house-fly.  Here,  as  amid  the  upper  deposits  at 
Sedgley,  I  was  struck  with  the  general  resemblance  of  the 
formation  lo  the  Carboniferous  Limestone  :  not  a  few  of  the 
shells  are  at  least  generically  similar ;  there  is  the  same  abun- 
dance of  crinoidese  and  festinellae;  and  in  some  localities  nearly 
the  same  profusion  of  the  large  and  the  minuter  corals.  And 
though  tnlobites  are  comparatively  rare  in  the  Mountain  Lime- 
stone of  Britain,  I  have  found  in  that  of  Dryden,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Edinburgh,  the  body  of  at  least  one  trilobite,  which 
I  could  not  distinguish  from  a  species  of  frequent  occurrence 
in  the  Wenlock  Limestone,  —  the  Asaphus  Caudatus.  l  may 
remind  the  reader,  in  corroboration  of  the  fact,  that  Buckland, 
in  his  "  Bridgcwater  Treatise,"  figures  two  decapitated  speci- 
mens of  this  trilobite,  one  of  which  was  furnished  by  the  Car- 
boniferous Limestone  of  Northumberland,  and  the  other  by  the 
Transition  Limestone  near  Leominster.  There  obtains,  how- 
ever, one  striking  difference  between  the  more  ancient  and 
more  modern  deposits :  I  have  rarely  explored  richly  fossilifer- 
ous  beds  of  the  Mountain  Limestone,  without  now  and  then 
finding  the  scales  of  a  fish,  and  now  and  then  the  impression 
of  some  land-plant  washed  from  the  shore  ;  but  in  the  Silurian 
hills  of  the  Dudley  coal-field,  no  trace  of  the  vertebrata  has  yet 
been  found,  and  no  vegetabb  product  of  the  land. 

The  sun  had  got  far  down  in  the  west  ere  I  quitted  the 
deserted  quarry,  and  took  my  way  towards  the  distant  to.Tn, 
not  over,  but  through  the  hill,  by  a  long  gloomy  corridor.  1 
had  been  aware  all  day,  that  though  apparently  much  alone,  1 
lia?  yet  near  neighbors  :  there  had  been  an  .'rregular  succes* 
8* 


9C  FTRST    IMPREsSTONS    OF 

son  of  dull,  half-smothered  sounds,- from  the  bowels  of  the 
t;art.i ;  and  a(  times,  when  in  contact  with  the  naked  rock,  1 
could  feel, as  tlie  subterranean  thunder  pealed  through  the  abyss, 
the  solid  mass  trembling  beneath  me.  The  phenomena  were 
those  described  by  Wordsworth,  as  eliciting,  in  a  scene  of  deep 
solitude,  the  mingled  astonishment  and  terror  of  Peter  Bell, — 

♦'  When,  to  confound  his  spiteful  mirth, 
A  murmur  pent  within  the  earth, 
In  the  dead  earth,  beneath  the  road. 
Sudden  arose  !     It  swept  along, 
A  muffled  noise,  a  rumbling  sound  : 
'Twas  by  a  troop  of  miners  made. 
Plying  with  gunpowder  their  trade. 
Some  twenty  fathoms  under  ground." 

I  was  scarce  prepared,  however,  for  excavations  of  such  impos- 
ing extent  as  the  one  into  vi'hich  I  found  the  vaulted  corridor 
open.  It  forms  a  long  gallery,  extending  for  hundreds  of  yards 
on  either  hand,  with  an  overhanging  precipice  bare  to  the  hill- 
top leaning  perilously  over  on  the  one  side,  and  a  range  of 
supporting  buttresses  cut  out  of  the  living  rock,  and  perfo- 
rated with  lofty  archwaj's,  planting  at  measured  distances  their 
strong  feet,  on  the  other.  Through  the  openings  between  the 
buttresses,  —  long  since  divested,  by  a  shaggj  vegetation,  of 
every  stiff  angularity  borrowed  from  the  tool  of  the  miner,  — 
the  red  light  of  evening  was  streaming,  in  well-defined  patches, 
on  the  gray  rock  and  broken  floor.  Each  huge  buttress  threw 
Its  broad  bar  of  shadow  in  the  same  direction ;  and  thus  the 
gallery,  through  Us  entire  extent,  was  barred,  zebra-like,  with 
alternate  belts  of  sun-light  and  gloom, — the  "ebon  and  ivory" 
of  Sir  Walter's  famed  description.  The  rawness  of  artificial 
excavation  has  long  since  disappeared  under  the  slow  incrusta- 
tions cf  myriads  of  lichens  and  mosses,  —  for  the  quarrie. 
seems  to  have  had  done  with  the  place  for  centuries  ;  and  if  I 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  ^1 

could  h.ive  but  got  rid  of  the  recollection  that  it  had  been 
scooped  out  by  handfuls  for  a  far  different  purpose  than  that  of 
makinff  a  sfrotto,  1  would  have  deemed  it  one  of  the  finest 
caverns  I  ever  saw.  Immediately  beside  where  the  vaulted 
corridor  enters  the  gallery,  there  is  a  wide  dark  chasm  in  the 
floor,  famished  with  a  rusty  chain-ladder,  that  gives  perilous 
access  to  the  lower  workings  of  the  hill.  There  was  not  light 
enough  this  evening  to  show  half-way  down  ;  but  far  below,  in 
the  darkness,  I  could  see  the  fiery  glimmer  of  a  torch  reflected 
on  a  sheet  of  pitch-black  water  ;  and  1  afterwards  learned  that 
a  branch  of  the  Dudley  and  Birmingham  Canal,  invisible  for  a 
full  mile,  has  been  carried  thus  far  into  the  bowels  of  the  hill. 
I  crossed  over  the  nest-like  valley  scooped  in  the  summit  of  the 
eminence,  —  a  picturesque,  solitary  spot,  occupied  by  a  corn- 
field, and  feathered  all  around  on  the  edges  with  wood ;  and 
then  crossing  a  second  deep  excavation,  which,  like  the  gallery 
described,  is  solely  the  work  of  the  miner,  I  struck  over  a  range 
of  green  fields,  plef^««ntly  grouped  in  the  hollow  between  the 
Wren's-Nest-hill  ana  the  Castle-hill  of  Dudley,  and  reached 
the  town  just  as  the  snn  was  setting.  The  valleys  which  inter- 
pose between  the  three  Silurian  islets  of  the  Dudley  basin  are 
also  Silurian  ;  and  as  they  have  been  hollowed  by  the  denuding 
agencies  out  of  useless  beds  of  shale  and  mudstone,  the  miner 
has  had  no  motive  to  bore  into  their  sides  and  bottom,  or  to 
cumber  the  surface,  as  in  the  surrounding  coal-field,  with  the 
rums  of  the  interior  ;  and  so  the  valleys,  with  their  three  lovelr 
hil  8,  f(»rm  an  oasis  in  t  le  waste. 


[)2  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


CHAPTER    V. 

Dudley  ifj'nif  ant  Marks  of  the  Mining  Town.  —  Kindly  Scotch  Land 
lady.  -  Temperance  Coffee-house.  —  Little  Samuel  the  Teetotaller.  — 
Curiot.  Incident. —  Anecdote.—  The  Resuscitated  Spinet.  —  Forbear 
ance  ol  .ittle  Samuel.  —  Dudley  Museum  ;  singularly  rich  in  Silurian 
Fossils  —  Mcgalichthys  Hibberti.  —  Fossils  from  Mount  Lebanon  ;  very 
modern  compared  with  those  of  the  Hill  of  Dudley.  —  Geology  pecu- 
liarly fitted  to  revolutionize  one's  Ideas  of  Modern  and  Ancient.  —  Fos- 
sils of  extreme  Antiquity  furnished  by  a  Canadian  Township  that  had 
no  name  twenty  years  ago.  —  Fossils  from  the  Old  E)gyptian  Desert  found 
to  be  comparatively  of  Yesterday.  —  Dudley  Castle  and  Castle-hill. — 
Cromwell's  Mission.  —  Castle  finds  a  faithful  Chronicler  in  an  old 
Serving-maid.  —  Her  Narrative.  —  Caves  and  Fossils  of  the  Castle- 
hill.  —  Extensive  Excavations.  —  Superiority  of  the  Natural  to  the  Arti- 
ficial Cavern.  —  Fossils  of  the  Scottish  Grauwacke.  —  Analogy  between 
the  Female  Lobster  and  the  Trilobite. 

The  town  of  Dudley  has  been  built  half  on  the  Silurian 
deposit,  half  on  the  coal-field,  and  is  flanked  on  the  one  side  by 
pleasant  fields,  traversed  by  quiet  green  lanes,  and  on  the  other 
by  ruinous  coal- workings  and  heaps  of  rubbish.  But  as  the 
townspeople  are  not  "  lie-wasters,"  we  find,  in  at  least  the 
neighborhood  of  the  houses,  the  rubbish  heaps  intersected  with 
innuniei^le  rude  fences,  and  covered  by  a  rank  vegetation. 
The  mechanics  of  the  place  have  cultivated  without  levelling 
them,  so  that  for  acres  together  they  present  the  phenomenon 
of  a  cockling  sea  of  gardens,  —  a  rural  Bay  of  Biscay  agitated 
by  the  grcund-swell,  —  with  rows  of  cabbages  and  beds  of  carrots 
riding  on  the  tops  of  huge  waves,  and  gooseben^'  and  currant 
bushes  sheltering  in  deep  troughs  and  hollows.  1  marked,  as 
I  passed  tt  roug  h  the  streets,  several  significant  traits  of  the 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLt  93 

mining'  tow-i  •  one  of  the  signboards,  bearing  .  le  figure  of  & 
brawn}'  half-naked  man,  armed  with  a  short  pick,  and  coiled  up 
like  an  Andre  Ferrara  broadsword  in  a  peck  basket,  indicates 
the  inn  Df  the  "Jolly  Miner;"  the  hardware  shops  exhibit  in 
their  windows  rows  of  Davy's  safety  lamps,  and  vast  piles  of 
mining  tools ;  and  the  footways  show  their  sprinkling  of  rugged- 
looking  men,  attired  in  short  jackets  and  trousers  of  undyed 
pla'ding,  sorely  besmutted  by  the  soil  of  an  underground  occu- 
patiop.  In  some  instances,  the  lamp  still  sticking  in  the  cap. 
and  the  dazzled  expressior*  of  countenance,  as  if  the  eye  had 
not  yet  accommodated  itself  to  the  light,  indicate  the  close 
proximity  of  the  subterranean  workings.  I  dropped  into  a 
respectable-looking  taven.  to  order  a  chop  and  a  glass  of  ale, 
and  mark,  meanwhile,  whether  it  was  such  a  place  as  I  might 
convert  into  a  home  for  a  few  days  with  any  reasonable  pros- 
pect of  comfort.  But  I  found  it  by  much  too  favorite  a  resort 
of  the  miners,  and  that,  whether  they  agreed  or  disputed,  they 
were  a  noisy  generation  over  their  ale.  The  landlady,  a  kindly, 
portly  dame,  considerably  turned  of  fifty,  was  a  Scotchwoman, 
a  native  of  Airdrie,  who  had  long  ago  married  an  Englishman 
in  her  own  country,  and  had  now  been  settled  in  Dudley  for 
more  than  thirty  years.  My  northern  accent  seemed  to  bespeak 
her  favor ;  and  taking  it  for  granted  that  I  had  come  into  Eng- 
land in  quest  of  employment,  but  had  not  yet  been  successful 
in  piDcuring  any,  she  began  to  speak  comfort  to  my  dejection, 
by  assuring  me  that  onir  country  folk  in  that  part  of  the  world 
were  much  respected,  and  rose  always,  if  they  had  but  char 
actor,  into  places  of  trust.  I. had  borne  with  me,  on  my  homely 
cuit  of  russet,  palpable  marks  of  my  labors  at  Sedgley  and  the 
Wren's  Nest,  and  looked,  I  daresay,  rather  geological  than 
genteel.  Character  and  scholarship,  said  the  landlady,  drawing 
her  inference,  v/^ere  just  everything  in  that  neighborhood.    Mosf 


04  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

)f  the  Scot  :h  people  who  came  the  way,  however  poor,  /lao 
both ;  and  so,  while  the  Irish  always  remained  drudges,  ana 
were  regarded  with  great  jealousy  by  the  laboring  English,  the 
Scotch  became  overseers  and  book-keepers,  sometimes  even 
partners  in  lucrative  works,  and  were  usually  well  liked  and 
looked  up  to.  I  could  fain  have  taken  up  my  abode  at  tht 
friendly  Scotchwoman's ;  but  the  miners  in  a  neighboring 
apartment  were  becoming  every  moment  more  noisy ;  and 
when  they  began  to  strike  the  table  with  their  fists  till  the 
glasses  danced  and  rung,  1  got  up,  and,  taking  leave  of  my 
countrywoman,  sallied  into  the  street. 

After  sauntering  about  the  town  for  half  an  hour,  I  found  in 
one  of  the  lanes  a  small  temperance  coffee-house,  with  an  air 
of  quiet  sobriety  about  it  that  at  once  recommended  it  to  my 
favor.  Finding  that  most  of  the  customers  of  the  place  went 
into  the  kitchen  to  luxuriate  over  their  coffee  in  front  of  the 
fire,  ]  too  v.'ent  into  the  kitchen,  and  took  my  seat  on  a  long 
wooden  settle,  with  tall  upright  back  and  arms,  that  stretched 
along  the  side  of  the  apartment,  on  the  clean  red  tiles.  The 
English  are  by  much  a  franker  people  trian  the  Scotch,  —  less 
curious  to  know  who  the  stranger  may  be  who  addresses  them, 
and  more  ready  to  tell  what  they  themselves  are,  and  what 
they  are  doing  and  thinking  ;  and  I  soon  found  I  could  get  as 
much  conversation  as  I  wished.  The  landlady's  youngest  son, 
a  smart  little  fellow  in  his  ninth  year,  was,  I  discovered,  a  stem 
teetotaller.  He  had  been  shortly  before  at  a  temperance  meet- 
ing, and  had  been  set  up  to  make  a  speech,  in  which  he  had 
acquitted  himself  to  the  admiration  of  all.  He  had  been  a 
teetotaller  for  about  nine  years,  he  said,  and  his  father  was  a 
teetotaller  too,  and  his  mother,  and  brother  and  sisters,  were 
all  teetotallers ;  and  he  knew  men,  he  added,  who,  before 
taking  the  pledge,  had  worn  ragged  clothes,  and  shoes  without 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOl  LE.  P5 

Boles,  who,  on  becoming  teetotallers,  had  improved  into  j,  ntle- 
men.  He  was  novv  engaged  in  making  a  second  speech,  which 
was,  howe/er,  like  a  good  many  other  second  speeches  pro- 
duced in  such  circumstances,  very  much  an  echo  of  the  first; 
iind  every  one  who  dropped  in  this  evening,  whether  to  visit 
the  landlady  and  her  daughters,  or  to  drink  coffee,  was  suie  to 
question  little  Samuel  regarding  the  progress  of  his  speech. 
To  some  of  the  querists  Samuel  replied  with  great  deference 
arA  respect;  to  some  with  no  deference  or  respect  at  all. 
Condition  or  appearance  seemed  to  exert  as  little  influence 
over  the  mind  of  the  magnanimous  speech-maker  as  over  that 
of  the  eccentric  clergyman  in  Mr.  Fitzadam's  Wjrld,  who  paid 
to  robust  health  the  honor  so  usually  paid  to  rank  and  title,  and 
looked  down  as  contemptuously  on  a  broken  constitution  as 
most  other  people  do  on  dilapidated  means.  But  Samuel  had 
quite  a  different  standard  of  excellence  from  that  of  the  eccen- 
tric clergj'man.  He  had,  I  found,  no  respect  save  for  pledged 
teetotalism  ;  and  no  words  to  bestow  on  drinkers  of  strong 
drink,  however  moderate  in  their  potations.  All  mankind 
consisted,  with  Samuel,  of  but  two  classes,  —  drunkards  and 
teetotallers.  Two  young  ladies,  daughters  of  the  supervisor 
of  the  district,  came  in,  and  asked  him  how  he  was  getting  on 
with  his  speech  ;  but  Samuel  deigned  them  no  reply.  "  You 
were  rude  to  the  young  ladies,  Samuel,"  said  his  mother  when 
they  had  quitted  the  room ;  "  why  did  you  not  give  them  an 
answer  to  their  question?"  —  "They  drink,"  replied  the  laconic 
Samuel.  —  "Drink  !  "  exclaimed  his  mother,  —  "  Drink  !  —  the 
young  ladies  :  "_"  Yes,  drink,"  reiterated  Samuel ;  "  thej  liave 
not  taken  the  pledge." 

I  found  a  curious  incident  which  had  just  occurred  in  the 
neighborhood  forming  the  main  topic  of  conversation, —  exactly 
•uch  a  s-lory  as  Crabbe  would  have  chosen  fr  the  basis  of  a 


fl6  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF 

descriptive  poem.  A  leaden  pipe  had  been  stolen  a  few  even 
ings  before  from  one  of  the  town  churches :  it  was  a  long 
ponderous  piece  of  metal ;  and  the  thieves,  instead  of  carrying, 
had  dragged  it  along,  leaving  behind  them,  as  they  went,  a 
significant  trail  on  grass  and  gravel,  which  had  been  traced  on 
the  morrow  by  the  sexton  to  the  house  of  an  elderly  couple,  in 
what,  for  their  condition,  were  deemed  snug  circumstances,  and 
who  for  full  thirty  years  had  borne  a  fair  character  in  the  place. 
There  lived  with  them  two  grown-up  sons,  and  they  also  bore 
fair  characters.  A  brief  search,  however,  revealed  part  of  the 
missing  lead  ;  a  still  further  search  laid  open  a  vast  mine  of 
purloined  movables  of  every  description.  Every  tile  in  the 
back  court,  every  square  yard  in  the  garden,  every  board  in  the 
house-floor,  covered  its  stolen  article  ;  —  kitchen  utensils  and 
fire-irons,  smiths'  and  miners'  tools,  sets  of  weights  from  the 
market-place,  pieces  of  hardware  goods  from  the  shops,  garden 
railings,  sewerage  grates,  house-spouts,  —  all  sorts  of  things 
useful  and  useless  to  the  purloiners,  —  some  of  them  missed  but 
yesterday,  some  of  them  abstracted  years  before,  —  were  found 
heaped  up  together,  in  this  strange  jay's  nest.  Two-thirds  of 
the  people  of  Dudley  had  gone  out  to  mark  the  progress  of 
discovery;  and  as  the  police  furrowed  the  garden,  or  trenched 
up  the  floor,  there  were  few  among  the  numerous  spectators 
who  were  not  able  to  detect  in  the  mass  some  piece  of  their 
own  property.  I  saw  the  seventh  cart-load  brought  this  even- 
ing to  the  police-office  ;  and  every  fresh  visiter  to  the  coffee- 
house carried  with  him  the  intelligence  of  further  discoveries. 
The  unhappy  old  man,  who  had  become  so  sudden  a  bankrupt 
n  reputation  when  no  one  had  doubted  his  solvency,  and  the 
two  sons  whom  he  had  trained  so  ill,  had  been  sent  off  to 
Gloucester  jail  the  evening  before,  to  abide  their  trial  at  the 
ensuing  assizes.    I  was  reminded,  by  the  incident,  of  an  occur* 


ENGLAND   AND   ITS    PEOPLE.  97 

fence  which  took  place  some  time  in  the  last  age  in  a  rurtil  dis- 
trict in  the  far  north.  A  parish  smith  had  lived  and  died  with 
an  unsuspected  character,  and  the  population  of  half  the  coun- 
try-side gathered  to  his  funeral.  There  had  been,  however,  a 
vast  deal  of  petty  pilfering  in  his  time.  Plough  and  harrow 
irons  were  continually  disappearing  from  the  fields  and  stead- 
ings of  the  farmers,  his  nearer  neighbors ;  not  a  piece  of  hem- 
mounting  or  trace-chain,  not  a  cart-axle  or  wheel-rim,  was 
secure ;  but  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  implicating  the  smith. 
Directly  opposite  his  door  there  stood  a  wall  of  loose,  unce- 
mented  stones,  against  which  a  party  of  the  farmers  who  had 
come  to  the  burial  were  leaning,  until  the  corpse  should  be 
brought  out.  The  coffin  was  already  in  the  passage ;  the 
farmers  were  raising  their  shoulders  from  the  wall,  to  take 
their  places  beside  it;  in  ten  minutes  more  the  smith  would 
have  been  put  under  ihe  ground  with  a  fair  character;  when, 
lo  I  the  frail  masonry  behind  suddenly  gave  way ;  the  clank  of 
metal  was  heard  to  mingle  with  the  dull  rumble  of  the  stones ; 
and  there,  amid  the  rubbish,  palpable  as  the  coffin  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  road,  lay,  in  a  scattered  heap,  the  stolen  imple- 
ments so  mysteriously  abstracted  from  the  farmers.  The  awe- 
struck men  must  have  buried  the  poor  smith  with  feelings 
which  bore  reference  to  both  worlds,  and  which  a  poet  such  as 
Wordsworth  would  perhaps  know  how  to  describe. 

My  landlady's  eldest  son,  a  lad  of  nineteen,  indulged  a 
strong  predilertion  for  music,  which,  shortly  prior  to  the  date 
of  my  visit,  had  received  some  encouragement,  in  his  appoint- 
ment as  organist  in  one  of  the  town  churches.  At  a  consider- 
able expense  of  patient  ingenuity,  he  had  fitted  up  an  old 
spinet,  until  it  awoke  into  life,  in  these  latter  days  of  C(  Hards 
and  Broad  woods,  the  identical  instrument  it  had  been  a  cen- 
tury before.  He  had  succeeded,  too,  in  acquiring  no  imper* 
9 


98  FIRST    .  VIPRESSIONS    OP 

feet  mastery  ovei  it;  and  so,  by  a  series  of  chaaces  all  very 
much  out  of  the  reach  of  calculation,  I,  who  till  now  had  never 
■seen  but  dead  spinets,  —  rickety  things  of  chopped  wainscot, 
lying  in  waste  garrets  from  the  days  of  the  grandmothers  and 
great-grandmothers  of  genteel  families,  —  was  enabled  to  culti- 
vate acquaintance  with  the  capabilities  of  a  resusc/tated  spinet, 
vocal  and  all  alive.  It  gave  me  the  idea,  when  at  its  best,  of  a 
box  full  of  Jew's  harps,  all  twanging  away  at  the  full  extent  of 
tlieir  compass,  and  to  the  best  of  their  ability.  The  spirit  of 
the  musician,  however,  made  such  amends  for  the  defects  of 
his  instrument,  that  his  evening  performances,  carried  on  when 
his  labors  for  the  day  had  closed,  were  exceedingly  popular  in 
the  neighborhood :  the  rude  miner  paused  under  the  windows 
to  listen;  and  groups  of  visiters,  mostly  young  girls,  came 
droppmg  in  every  night  to  enjoy  the  nice  fresh  melodies  brought 
out  of  the  old  musty  spinet.  Lovers  of  the  fine  arts  draw 
naturally  together  ;  and  one  of  the  most  frequent  guests  of  the 
coffee-house  was  an  intelligent  country  artist,  with  whom  I  had 
scraped  acquaintance,  and  had  some  amusing  conversation. 
With  little  Samuel  the  speech-maker  I  succeeded  in  forming  a 
friendship  of  the  superlative  type  ;  though,  strange  to  relate,  it 
must  be  to  this  day  a  profound  mystery  to  Samuel  whether  his 
fidus  Achates  the  Scotchman  be  a  drinker  of  strong  drink  or 
a  teetotaller.  Alas  for  even  teetotalised  human  nature,  when 
placed  in  trying  circumstances !  Samuel  and  I  had  a  good 
many  cups  of  coffee  together,  and  several  glasses  of  Sampson, 
—  a  palatable  Dudley  beverage,  compounded  of  eggs,  milk, 
and  spicerj";  and  as  on  these  occasions  a  few  well-directed 
coppers  enabled  him  to  drive  hard  bargains  with  his  mother  for 
his  share  of  the  tipple,  he  was  content  to  convert  in  my  behalf 
the  all-important  question  of  the  pledge  into  a  moot-point  of  no 
particular  concernment.     I  unfortunately  left  Dudley  ere  he 


ENGLAND   AND   ITS    PEOPLE.  99 

had  an  opportunity  presented  him  of  deli\'ering  his  second 
speech.  But  he  entertained,  he  assured  me,  no  fears  for  the 
result.  It  was  well  known  in  the  place,  he  said,  that  he  was 
to  speak  at  the  first  temperance  meeting ;  there  were  large 
expectations  formed,  so  the  audience  could  not  be  other  than 
very  numerous  and  attentive ;  and  he  was  quite  satisfied  he 
had  something  worth  while  to  give  them.  My  friend  Samuel 
bore  a  good  deal  of  healthy  precocity  about  him.  It  would  be, 
of  course,  consummately  absurd  to  found  aught  on  a  single  in- 
stance ;  but  it  has  been  so  often  remarked  that  English  chil- 
dren of  the  lively  type  develop  into  cleverness  earlier  than  the 
Scotch,  that  the  observation  has,  in  all  likelihood,  some  found- 
ation in  reality.  I  find,  too,  from  the  experiments  of  Professor 
Forbes,  of  Edinburgh,  that  the  English  lad  in  his  sixteenth, 
seventeenth,  and  eighteenth  years,  possesses  more  bodily 
strength  than  the  Scot  of  the  same  years  and  standing,  and 
that  it  is  not  until  their  nineteenth  year  that  the  young  men 
of  both  countries  meet  on  a  footing  of  equality.  And  it  seema 
not  irrational  to  infer,  that  the  earlier  development  of  body  in 
the  case  of  the  embryo  Englishman  should  be  accompanied  by 
a  corresponding  development  of  mind  also,  —  that  his  school 
exercises  should  be  better  than  those  of  the  contemporary  Scot, 
and  his  amateur  verses  rather  more  charged  with  meaning,  and 
more  smoothly  rounded. 

Dudley  has  its  Geological  Museum,  —  small,  but  very  valu- 
able in  some  departments,  and  well  arranged  generally.  Its 
Silurian  organisms  are  by  far  the  finest  I  ever  saw.  ■  No  sum 
of  money  would  enable  the  fossil  collector  to  complete  such  a 
set.  It  contains  original  specimens  of  the  trilobite  family,  of 
which,  in  other  museums,  even  the  British,  one  finds  but  the 
casts.  Nor  can  anything  be  more  beautiful  than  its  groupa 
of  delicately   relie\  =^d  crinoidea   of  all   the   different,   Silurian 


100  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF 

genera,  —  some  ol  them  in  scarce  less  perfect  keeping  thati 
when  they  spread  out  their  many-jointed  arms  in  quest  of 
prey  amid  the  anciint  seas.  It  contains,  however,  none  of  the 
vertebral  remains  furnished  by  the  celebrated  bone-bed  of  the 
Upper  Ludlow  rocks,  nor  any  of  the  ichthyolitic  fragments 
(bund  still  lower  down ;  though,  of  course,  one  misses  them 
all  the  more  from  the  completeness  of  the  collection  in  con 
temporary  organisms  ;  and  its  group  of  Old  Red  Sandstone 
fossils  serves  but  to  contrast  the  organic  poverty  of  this  system 
in  its  development  in  England,  with  the  vast  fossil  riches  which 
it  exhibits  in  our  northern  division  of  the  island.  The  neigh- 
boring coal-field  I  found  well  represented  by  a  series  of  plants 
and  ichthyolites ;  and  I  had  much  pleasure  in  examining, 
among  the  latter,  one  of  the  best  preserved  specimens  of  Mega- 
lichthys  yet  found,  —  a  specimen  disinterred  some  years  ago 
from  out  an  ironstone  bed  near  Walsall,  known  to  the  miners 
as  the  "gubbin  iron."  The  head  is  in  a  remarkably  fine  state 
of  keeping :  the  strong  enamelled  plates,  resembling  pieces  of 
japanned  mail,  occupy  their  original  places ;  they  close  round 
the  snout  as  if  tightly  riveted  dov/n,  and  lie  nicely  inlaid  in 
patterns  of  great  regularity  on  the  broad  forehead;  the  surface 
of  each  is  finely  punctulated,  as  if  by  an  exceedingly  minute 
needle  ;  most  of  them  bear,  amid  the  smaller  markings,  eyelet- 
like indentations  of  larger  size,  ranged  in  lines,  as  if  they  had 
been  half-perforated  for  ornament  by  a  tin-worker's  punch ;  and 
the  tout  ensemble  is  that  of  the  head  of  some  formidable  reptile 
f;ncased  irt  armor  of  proof:  though,  from  the  brightly  burnished 
surface  of  the  plates,  the  armature  resembles  rather  that  of 
some  of  the  more  brilliant  insects,  than  that  common  to  fishes 
3r  reptiles.  The  occipital  covering  of  the  crocodile  is  perhaps 
more  than  equally  strong,  but  it  lacks  the  glossy  japan,  and 
tbr  tilt-yard  ca?t,  if  I  may  so  speak,  of  the  many-jointed  hrad- 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  101 

pio^e  of  the  Megalichf.hys.  The  occipital  plates  descend  no 
!nv\er  than  the  nape,  where  they  join  on  to  thickly-set  ranges 
of  glittering  quadrangular  scales  of  considerable  size  and  great 
tliickness,  that  gradually  diminish,  and  become  more  angular 
as  they  approach  the  tail.  The  fins  are  unluckily  not  indi 
cated  in  the  specimen.  In  all  fossil  fish,  of  at  least  the  Sec- 
ondar)-^  and  Palasozoic  formations,  the  coloring  depends  on  the 
character  of  the  deposits  in  which  they  have  lain  entombed.  1 
have  seen  scales  and  plates  of  the  Megalichthys,  in  some  in- 
stances of  a  sienna  yellow,  in  some  of  a  warm  chestnut  brown  ; 
but  the  finer  specimens  are  invariably  of  a  glossy  black.  The 
Dudley  Mcgalichtkys,  and  a  Megalichthys  in  the  possession  of 
Dr.  John  Fleming,  which,  though  greatly  hss  entire,  is  valua- 
ble, from  exhibiting  the  vertebral  column  of  the  animal,  are 
both  knights  in  black  armor.*= 

*  This  ancient  fish  was  at  one  time  confounded  with  its  contemporary, 
the  Holoptychius  Hibberti.  A  jaw  of  the  latter  animal,  with  its  slim 
ichthyolite  teeth  bristling  around  its  huge  reptile  tusks,  may  be  seen 
figured  as  that  oi  Megalichthys,  in  the  singularly  interesting  Memoir  of 
Dr.  Hibbert  on  the  Limestone  of  Burdie  House  ,  and  we  find  single  teeth 
similarly  misassigned  in  some  other  geological  works  of  credit.  But  no 
two  ichthyolites  in  the  geologic  scale  in  reality  less  resemble  each  othei 
than  these  two  fish  of  the  Coal  Measures.  The  Megulichthys,  from  head 
to  tail,  was  splendent  with  polished  enamel  ;  the  Holoptychius  was,  on 
the  contrary,  a  dull-coated  fish.  The  Megalichthys  rarely  e.xceetled  four 
feet  in  length,  and  commonly  fell  short  of  three  ;  the  Holoptychius  wag 
one  of  the  most  gigantic  of  the  ganoids  :  some  individuals,  judging  from 
the  fragments,  must,  like  the  great  basking  shark  of  the  northern  seas, 
have  exceeded  thirty  feet  in  length.  The  scales  of  the  Megalichthys  are 
emooth,  quadrangular,  and  of  great  thickness,  but  rarely  exceed  an  inch, 
or  three  quarters  of  an  inch,  across  ;  those  of  the  Holoptychius  are  thin, 
nearly  circular  in  form,  thickly  ridged  on  the  upper  surface,  and  vary 
from  an  inch  to  more  than  five  inclies  in  diameter.  The  head  of  the 
Mcgali  :h thy s  v/i\s  covered,  as  has  been  shown,  with  briglitly-japanned 
plates  ;  that  of  the  Holoptychius,  with  plates  thickly  fretted  on  the  sur 
t*ce,  like  pieces  >f  shagreen,  only  the  tubercles  are  more  confluent,  and 
9* 


102  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

Amon^j  the  donations  to  the  Dudley  Museum,  illustniti/e  ol 
the  geology  of  foreign  parts,  I  saw  an  interesting  group  of 
finely-preserved  fossil  fish  from  Mount  Lebanon,  —  a  ver}'  an« 
cient  mountain,  in  its  raation  to  human  history,  compared  with 
the  Castle-hill  of  Dudley  (which,  however,  begins  to  loom 
darkly  through  the  haze  of  the  monkish  annalists  as  early  as 
the  year  700,  when  Dud  the  Saxon  built  a  stronghold  on  its 
summit),  but  an  exceedingly  recent  hill  in  its  relation  to  the 
geologic  eras.  The  geologist,  in  estimating  the  respective  ages 
of  the  two  eminences,  places  the  hill  with  the  modem  history 
immensely  in  advance  of  the  hill  with  the  ancient  one.  The 
fish  dug  out  of  the  sides  of  Lebanon,  some  five  or  six  thousand 
feet  over  the  level  of  the  sea,  are  all  fish  of  the  modern  type, 
vith  horny  scales  and  bony  skeletons ;  and  they  cannot  belong 

lii  ranged  in  irregular  ridges.  It  may  be  mentioned  in  the  passing,  that 
the  Holoptychius  of  the  Coal  Measures,  if  there  be  value  in  the  distin- 
guishing characteristics  of  Owen,  —  and  great  value  there  certainly  is,  — 
was  not  even  generically  related  to  the  Holoptychius  of  the  Old  Red  Sand- 
stone. The  reptile  teeth  of  the  Old  Red  Holoptychius  are  of  bone,  marked 
by  the  true  dendrodic  character  of  the  genus,  and  so  thickly  cancellated 
towards  the  base,  as  to  resemble.  In  the  cross  section,  pieces  of  open  lace- 
work.  The  reptile  teeth  of  the  Holoptychius  Hibberti,  on  the  contrary, 
are  of  ivory,  presenting  towards  the  point,  where  the  surface  is  smooth 
and  unfurrowed,  the  common  tubular,  radiating  character  of  that  sub- 
stance, and  exhibiting  towards  the  base,  where  the  Gothic-like  rodding  is 
displayed,  a  strange  intricacy  of  pattern,  that  becomes  more  involved  as 
we  cut  lower  down,  till  what  in  the  middle  section  resembles  the  plait- 
ing of  a  ruff  seen  in  profile,  is  found  to  resemble,  immediately  over  the 
line  where  the  base  rests  on  the  jaw,  the  labyrinthine  complexity  of  a 
Runic  knot.  The  scales  of  the  creatures,  too,  are  very  dissimilar  in  their 
microscopic  structure,  though  both  possess  in  common  ridged  surfaces, — 
the  only  point  of  resemblance  from  which  their  generic  identity  has  been 
inferred.  Even  the  internal  structure  of  their  occipital  plates  is  wholly 
different.  So  far  as  is  yet  known,  the  Coal  Measures  contain  no  Holopty- 
:h.ius  akin  to  the  dendr*  lie  geaus  of  that  name  so  abundant  io  the  OW 
Red  Sandstone. 


ENGl-AND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  103 

tt  a  ren  oter  period,  Agassiz  tells  us,  than  the  times  of  the 
CI  alk.  Fish  were  an  ancient  well-established  order  in  these 
comparatively  recent  days  of  the  Cretaceous  system  ;  whereas 
their  old  Placjid  predecessors,  contemporary  with  the  Crustacea 
hrachipoda  of  the  Hill  of  Dudley,  seem  but  to  have  just  started 
into  being  at  the  earlier  tune,  as  the  first-born  of  their  race, 
and  must  have  been  regarded  as  mere  upstart  novelties  among 
the  old  plebeian  crustaceans  and  molluscs  they  had  come  to 
govern.  The  trilobites  of  Dudley  are  some  four  or  five  crea- 
tions deeper  in  the  bygone  eternity,  if  I  may  so  speak,  than  the 
cycloids  and  ctenoids  of  Lebanon.  I  was  a  good  deal  struck, 
shortly  before  leaving  home,  by  this  curious  transposition  of 
idea  which  Geologj^in  such  cases  is  suited  to  accomplish,  i 
found  waiting  my  inspection,  one  morning  in  the  house-lobby, 
a  box  and  basket,  both  filled  with  fossils.  I'hose  in  the  basket, 
which  had  been  kindly  sent  me  by  Dr.  John  Wilson,  of  Bom- 
bay, consisted  of  ichthyolites  and  shells  from  the  Holy  Land, 
and  fossil  wood  from  the  old  Egyptian  desert;  while  those  in 
the  box,  which  had  been  obligingly  transmitted  me  by  Dr. 
James  Wilson,  of  Upper  Canada,  —  a  gentleman  who,  amid  the 
wild  backwoods,  with  none  to  assist  and  few  to  sympathize, 
has  cultivated  a  close  acquaintance  with  science  for  its  own 
sake, —  had  been  collected  in  the  modern  township  of  Paken- 
ham,  not  far  from  the  banks  of  the  Ottawa,  The  fossil  wood 
of  the  old  desert — unequivocally  dicotyledonous,  of  the  oak 
or  mahogany  structure  —  could  not,  I  found,  be  older  than  the 
Tertiary  period  ;  the  fish  and  shells  of  Palestine,  like  those  of 
the  Dudley  Museum,  belong  apparently  to  the  times  of  .he 
Clr'k;  but  the  organisms  of  the  modern  township,  that  iiad  no 
name  twenty  yearS  ago,  boasted  an  incomparably  higher  an- 
liqaity:  they  consisted  of  corals,  Crustacea,  and  cephalopoda 
from  the  Lower  Silurians. 


104  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

No  one  who  visits  Dudley  should  omit  seeing  its  castle  and 
castle-hill.  The  castle,  a  fine  old  ruin  of  the  true  English 
type,  with  moat,  court  and  keep,  dungeon  and  treble  gateway, 
chapel,  guard-room  and  hall,  resembles  in  extent  rather  3 
ruinous  village  than  a  single  building ;  while  the  hill  on  which 
it  stands  forms,  we  find,  a  picturesquely  wooded  eminence, 
seamed  w-th  rough,  bosky  ravines,  and  bored  deep  with  gloomy 
chasms,  tl  at  were  excavated  centuries  ago  as  limestone  quar- 
ries. Bu;  their  lime  has  been  long  since  exhausted,  and  the 
miner  no  v  plies  his  labors  unseen,  though  not  unheard,  deep 
amid  the  bowels  of  the  mountain.  The  visiter  may  hear,  lii 
recesses  the  most  recluse  and  solitary,  the  frequent  rumble  cf 
his  subterraneous  thunder,  and  see  the  aspen  trembling  in  the 
calm,  under  the  influence  of  the  earthquake-like  tremor  com- 
municated to  it  from  beneath. 

The  old  keep,  by  much  the  strongest  and  most  ancient  por- 
tion of  the  building,  rises  on  the  highest  part  of  the  eminence, 
and  commands  the  town  below,  part  of  which  lies  grouped 
around  the  hill-foot,  almost  within  pistol-shot  of  the  walls.  In 
;he  olden  time,  this  fortress  occupied  the  centre  of  an  extensive 
woodland  district,  and  was  known  as  the  "  Castle  of  the 
Woods."  It  had  some,  rather  high-handed  masters  in  its  day, 
—  among  the  rest,  the  stern  Leofric,  husband  of  the  Lady 
Godiva,  so  celebrated  in  chronicle  and  song  for  her  ride  through 
Coventry.  Even  as  late  as  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
a  lord  of  Dudley,  at  feud  with  a  neighboring  proprietor,  ances- 
tor of  the  well-known  Lord  Lyttleton,  issued  from  the  triple 
gateway,  "having,"  says  a  local  historian  of  the  time,  "one 
hundred  and  forty  persons  with  him,  weaponed,  some  with 
bows  and  shefl"es  of  arrows,  some  with  forest-bills  and  stave*. 
and  can  e  to  Mr.  Lyttleton's  lands  at  Prestwood  and  Ashwood ; 
and  out  of  Ashwood   he   took  three   hundred    and    forty-one 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  105 

sljeep,  a  iG  :*.used  some  of  his  company  drive  tliem  owards 
Dudley ;  and  therewith  not  satisfied,  he  entered  also  into  the 
enclosed  grounds  at  Prestwood,  and  there,  with  great  vio- 
lence, chased  fourteen  kyne,  one  bull,  and  eight  fat  oxenj  and 
brought  them  to  Dudley  Castle,  and  kept  them  within  the 
walls  of  the  castle ;  and  part  of  the  said  cattle  and  sheep  he 
did  kill  and  eat,  and  part  he  sent  to  Coventry,  guarded  by  sixty 
men  strongly  armed  with  bows  and  arrows,  caly  vers,  and  forest- 
bills,  there  to  be  sold."  Somewhat  rough  doings  these,  and 
rather  of  a  Scotch  than  an  English  type :  they  remind  one  of  a 
Highland  creach  of  the  days  of  Rob  Roy.  England,  however, 
had  a  boy  born  to  it  twenty  years  after  the  event,  who  put  an 
effectual  stop  to  all  such  acts  of  lordly  aggression  for  the 
future ;  and  the  keep  of  Dudley  Castle  shows  how.  Two  of 
its  rock-like  towers,  with  their  connecting  curtain,  remain 
scarce  less  entire  than  in  the  days  of  Dud  or  of  Leofric ;  but 
the  other  two  have  disappeared,  all  save  their  foundations,  and 
there  have  been  thirty-two-pound  shot  dug  out  from  among  the 
ruins,  that  in  some  sort  apologize  for  their  absence.  The  iron 
hand  of  Cromwell  fell  heavy  on  the  Castle  of  the  Woods,  —  a 
band,  of  which  it  may  be  said,  as  Barbour  says  of  the  gaunt- 
leted  hand  of  the  Bruce,  that 

"  Where  it  strook  with  even  stroke, 
Nothing  mocht  against  it  stand  ;" 

and  sheep  and  cattle  have  been  tolerably  safe  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ever  since.  It  was  a  breezy,  sunshiny  day  on  which  I 
climbed  the  hill  to  the  old  keep,  along  a  steep  paved  roadway 
o'ershaded  by  wood.  In  the  court  behind,  —  a  level  spa:c 
some  two  or  three  acres  in  extent,  flanked  on  the  one  side  by 
the  castle  buil.^ings,  and  on  the  other  by  a  gray  battlemented 
W8  I,  —  I  '")un  :  a  company  of  the  embodied  pensioners  going 


106  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

through  theii  exercises,  in  their  uniforms  of  red  and  blue 
Most  of  thet  .  —  old,  gray-headed  veterans,  with  medals  dan- 
gling at  thei  breasts,  and  considerably  stiffened  by  yes.rs  — 
seemed  to  perform  their  work  with  the  leisurely  air  of  men 
quite  aware  that  it  was  not  of  the  greatest  possible  importance. 
The  broken  ruins  lay  around  them,  rough  with  the  scars  of 
conflict  and  conflagration ;  and  the  old  time-worn  fortress  har- 
rionized  well  with  the  old  time-worn  soldiery. 

It  must  be  a  dull  imagination  that  a  scene  so  imposing  as 
that  presented  by  the  old  castle  does  not  set  in  motion  :  its 
gloomy  vaults  and  vast  halls,  —  its  huge  kitchen  and  roomy 
chapel,  —  its  deep  fosse  and  tall  rampart,  —  its  strong  portcul- 
lised  gateway  and  battered  keep,  —  are  all  suggestive  of  the 
past,  —  of  many  a  picturesque  group  of  human  creatures, 
impressed,  like  the  building  in  which  they  fed  and  fought, 
worshipped  and  made  merry,  with  the  character  of  a  bygone 
age.  The  deserted  apartments,  as  one  saunters  through  them, 
become  crowded  with  life  ;  the  gray,  cold,  evanished  centuries 
assume  warmth  and  color.  In  Dudley,  however,  the  imagina- 
tion receives  more  help  in  its  restorations  than  in  most  other 
ruins  in  a  state  of  equal  dilapidation.  The  building  owes 
much  to  a  garrulous  serving-maid,  that  followed  her  mistress, 
about  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago,  to  one  of  its  high  festi- 
vals,—  a  vast  deal  more,  at  least,  than  to  all  the  great  lords 
and  ladies  that  ever  shared  in  its  hospitality.  The  grand- 
mother of  that  Mrs,  Sherwood  of  whom,  I  daresay,  most  of  my 
readers  retain  some  recollection  since  their  good-boy  or  good- 
girl  days,  as  a  pleasing  writer  for  the  young,  was  a  ladies' 
maid,  some  time  early  in  the  last  century,  in  a  family  of  dis- 
tinction that  us(!d  to  visit  at  the  castle ;  and  the  authoress  has 
embodied  in  her  writings  ere  of  her  grandmother's  descriptions 
M   its  vanished   jlories,  as  communicated   to  her  by  the  old 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  107 

woman  inany  years  after.  I  must  give,  by  way  cf  specimen,  a 
few  characteristic  snatches  of  her  story,  —  a  story  which  .."ill 
scarce  fail  to  recall  to  the  learned  in  romance  the  picturesque 
narratives  of  Mrs.  RatclifTe's  garrulous  housekeepers  cr  the 
lengthened  anecdotes  of  the  communicative  Annette. 

"  I  was  delighted,"  says  the  old  serving-maid,  "  when  it  was 
told  me  that  I  was  to  accompany  my  lady  and  a  friend  of  hers 
to  the  castle,  in  order  that  I  might  be  at  hand  to  wait  on  them 
next  morning;  for  they  were  to  stay  at  the  castle  all  night. 
So  we  set  out  in  the  coach,  the  two  ladies  being  seated  in  front, 
and  myself  with  my  back  to  the  horses ;  and  it  was  quite  dark 
when  we  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  castle-hill,  for  it  was  the 
dead  of  winter,  and  the  snow  lay  on  the  ground.  However, 
there  were  lamps  fixed  upon  the  trees,  all  along  the  private 
road  up  to  the  castle ;  and  there  were  lights  upon  the  towers, 
which  «hone  as  beacons  far  and  near;  for  it  was  a  great  day 
at  the  castle.  The  horses,  though  we  had  four,  had  hard 
work  to  drag  us  up  the  snowy  path.  However,  we  got  up  in 
time ;  and,  passing  under  the  gateway,  we  found  ourselves  in 
the  court-yard.  But  oh,  how  different  did  it  then  show  to 
what  it  does  now,  being  littered  with  splendid  equipages,  and 
sounding  with  the  rattling  of  wheels  and  the  voices  of  coach- 
men and  grooms  calling  to  each  other,  ajid  blazing  with  liglits 
.<"rom  almost  every  window  !  and  the  sound  of  merry  voices,  and 
of  harps  antl  viols,  issued  from  every  doorway.  At  .ength, 
having  drawn  up  to  the  steps  of  the  portico,  my  ladies  were 
handed  out  by  a  young  gentleman  wearing  an  embroidered 
waistcoat  with  deep  pockets,  and  a  bag-wig  and  sword ;  and  I 
was  driven  to  another  door,  where  I  was  helpe  1  out  by  a  foot- 
boy,  who  showed  me  the  way  to  the  housekeeper's  room." 
The  serving-maid  then  goes  on  to  describe  the  interior.  She 
«a  V   on  the   dark  wainscoting  hard,  stiff  paintings,  in   faded 


108 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


colors,  of  antiquely-dressed  dames,  and  knights  in  armor;  but 
the  housemaid,  she  said,  could  tell  her  nothing  of  their  history. 
Some  of  the  rooms  were  hung  with  tapestry ;  some  with  tar- 
nished paper  that  looked  like  cut  velvet.  The  housekeeper 
was  an  old,  bustling  dame,  "  with  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  hang- 
ing to  her  girdle  by  a  strong  chain  of  steel."  '•  There  was  not 
a  window  which  was  sashed,  but  all  were  casemented  in  stone 
frames,  many  of  the  panes  being  of  colored  glass  ;  and  there 
was  scarce  one  chamber  on  the  same  level  with  another,  but 
there  was  a  step  to  go  up  or  a  step  to  go  down. to  each  :  the 
chimney-pieces  of  carved  wood  or  stone  were  so  high,  that  I 
could  hardly  reach  to  the  mantel-shelves  when  standing  on 
tiptoe ;  and  instead  of  grates,  such  as  we  have  now,  there  were 
mostly  dogs  upon  the  hearths.  The  chairs  were  of  such  a  size, 
that  two  of  the  present  sort  would  stand  in  the  room  of  one; 
and  the  doors,  though  very  thick  and  substantial,  were  each  an 
inch  or  two  from  the  floor,  so  that  the  wind  whistled  all  along 
the  passages,  rattling  and  shaking  the  casements,  and  often 
making  a  sort  of  wild  and  mournful  melody." 

The  great  hall  which  constituted  the  grand  centre  of  the  fes- 
tivities of  this  evening  now  forms  one  of  the  most  dilapidated 
portions  of  the  ruin.  The  front  walls  have  fallen  £o  low  that 
we  can  barely  trace  their  foundations,  and  a  rank  vegetation 
waves  over  the  floor.  I  think  it  is  Macculloch  who  says,  that 
full  one-half  the  ancient  strongholds  of  our  Scotch  Highland.s 
thrown  together  into  a  heap  would  be  found  scarce  equal  in  the 
aggregate  to  a  single  English  castle  of  the  more  magnificent 
type;  and  certainly  enough  remains  of  the  great  hall  here, 
broken  as  it  is,  to  illustrate,  and  in  some  degree  corroborate  the 
remark,  disparaging  to  the  Highlands  as  it  may  seem.  Wo 
can  still  ascertain  that  this  single  room  measured  seventy-five 
*eet  m  length  by  fifty-six  feet  in  breadth,  —  a  space  considera- 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  109 

bly  more  than  equal  in  area  to  most  of  ojr  north-country  for- 
talices.  It  was  remarkable  at  one  tmie  lor  containing,  says 
.  Dr.  Plott,  an  oak  table,  composed  of  a  single  plank,  three  feet 
'n  breadth,  that  extended  from  end  to  end  of  the  apartment. 
The  great  hall  must  have  presented  a  gay  scene  when  seen 
by  the  grandmother  of  Mrs.  Sherwood.  "  Three  doors  opened 
into  it  from  the  gallery  above.  At  one  of  these,"  says  the 
garrulous  old  woman,  "all  the  servant-maids  were  standing, 
and  I  took-  my  place  among  them.  I  can  hardly  tell  how  to 
describe  this  hall  to  you,  unless  by  saying  that  the  roof  was 
arched  or  groined,  not  unlike  that  of  some  ancient  church 
which  you  may  have  seen,  and  it  had  large  and  lofty  win- 
dows, painted  and  carved  in  the  fashion  called  Gothic.  It  was 
illuminated  with  many  candles,  in  sconces  of  brass  hanging 
from  the  ceiling;  and  every  corner  of  it,  wide  as  it  was,  was 
bright  as  the  day.  There  was  a  gallery  at  the  further  end  of 
it,  filled  with  musicians ;  and  the  first  and  foremost  among 
them  was  an  old  harper  from  Wales,  who  used,  in  those  days, 
to  travel  the  country  with  his  harp  on  his  back,  ever  presenting 
himself  at  the  doors  of  the  houses  where  feasts  and  merry- 
makings might  be  expected.  The  dresses  of  the  time  were  very 
splendid ;  the  ladies  shone  with  glossy  silks  and  jewels,  and 
the  gentlemen  with  embroidery  and  gold  and  silver  lace  ;  and 
I  have  still  before  me  the  figures  of  that  gay  and  distinguished 
company,  for  it  consisted  of  the  noble  of  the  land,  with  their 
families.  It  may  be  fancy ;  but  I  do  not  think  I  ever  in  these 
days  see  faces  so  fair  as  some  of  those  which  shone  that  night 
in  the  old  castle-hall."  Such  were  some  of  the  reminiscences 
of  the  ancient  serving-maid.  A  few  years  after  the  merry- 
making which  she  records,  the  castle  was  deserted  by  the 
inmates  ^or  a  more  modern  building;  and  in  1750  it  was 
reduced  by  fire  to  a  blackened  group  of  skeleton  walls.  A 
10 


11.0  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    JF 

gang  of  coin 3rs  were  suspected  at  the  time  of  harbor  ng  among 
its  concealments ;  and' the  conflagration  is  said  to  have  been 
the  work  of  an  incendiary  connected  with  the  gang.  An  unfin- 
ished stanza,  spelt  amiss,  and  carved  rudely  on  one  of  the  soft 
sandstone  lintels,  used  to  be  pointed  out  as  the  work  of  the 
felon  ;  but,  though  distinctly  legible  till  within  the  ast  few 
years,  it  can  now  be  pointed  out  no  longer:  — 

"  Water  went  round  it,  to  garde  it  from  the  Fooe . 
The  fire  shall  burn  it " 

Can  the  reader  complete  the  couplet  ?  If  not,  he  may  be  per 
haps  apt  to  suspect  the  man  who  first  filled  up  the  gap  with 
sense  and  rhyme  as  the  original  author,  and,  of  course,  the 
incerKjiary.  But  though  every  boy  and  girl  in  Dudley  has 
learned  to  add  the  missing  portion,  no  one  seems  to  know  who 
thf  individual  was  who  supplied  it  first. 

"  Water  went  round  it,  to  garde  it  from  the  Fooe  : 
The  fire  shall  burn  it,  and  laxj  its  towers  low." 

Some  of  the  dells  and  caverns  of  the  castle-hill  I  found 
exceedingly  picturesque.  Its  limestone  is  extensively  emploj^ed 
in  the  smelting  furnaces  as  a  flux.  Every  ton  of  clay  ironstone 
must  be  mixed  up  with  half  a  ton  of  lime,  to  facilitate  the 
separation  of  the  metal  from  the  argillaceous  dross  ;  and  so, 
from  the  earliest  beginnings  of  the  iron-trade,  the  work  of 
excavation  has  been  going  on  in  the  Hill  of  Dudley.  The  first 
smelter  who  dug  up  a  barrowful  of  ironstone  to  make  a  sword 
must  have  come  to  the  hill  for  half  a  barrowful  of  lime,  to  mix 
up  with  the  brown  mass,  ere  he  committed  it  to  the  fire.  And 
5o  some  of  the  caverns  are  very  vast,  and,  for  caverns  of  man's 
making,  very  old  ;  and  some  of  the  open  dells,  deserted  bj  the 
quarricr  for  centuries,  bear  amid  their  precipices  tree.*  of  large 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  1  1 1 

Bize,  and  have  long  since  lost  every  mark  of  the  tool.  The 
recesses  of  the  hill,  like  those  of  the  Wren's  Nest,  are  threaded 
by  a  subterranean  canal,  which,  in  passing  under  the  exca- 
vation of  an  ancient  quarry,  opens  to  the  light ;  and  so  in  a 
(hickly-wooded  walk,  profoundly  solitary,  when  one  is  least 
thinking  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing,  one  comes  full  upon 
a  wide  and  very  deep  chasm  overhung  by  trees,  the  bottom  of 
which  is  occupied  by  a  dark  basin,  crovvded  with  boats.  We 
may  mark  the  boatmen  emerging  from  out  the  darkness  by 
one  cavern,  and  reentering  it  by  another.  They  see  the  sun, 
and  the  sky,  and  the  green  trees,  far  above,  but  nothing  witliin 
reach  save  rough  rocks  and  muddy  water ;  and  if  they  do  not 
think,  as  they  pass,  of  human  life,  bounded  by  the  darkness  of 
the  two  eternities,  with  no  lack  of  the  gloomy  and  the  turbid 
in  closest  contact,  but  with  what  the  heart  most  desires  hung 
too  high  for  the  hand  to  grasp,  it  is  not  because  there  are  no 
such  analogies  furnished  by  the  brief  passage  through,  but 
merely  because  they  have  failed  to  discover  them.       -^ 

A  little  further  on  there  may  be  found  a  grand  though  some- 
what sombre  cavern,  which,  had  it  come  direct  from  the  hand 
of  nature,  I  would  have  perhaps  deemed  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  I  ever  explored.  We  enter  a  long  narrow  dell, 
wooded  atop,  like  all  the  others,  with  an  overhanging  pre;  ipice 
rising  tall  on  the  one  side,  and  the  strata  sloping  oft'  on  the 
other  in  a  continuous  plane,  like  the  face  of  a  rampart.  Noj 
is  this  sloping  wall  devoid  of  its  characteristic  sculpturings. 
We  find  it  fretted  with  shells  and  corals,  and  well-marked 
heads  and  joints  of  the  Calymene  Blumenbachii,  so  abundant  an 
organism  in  these  rocks  as  to  be  familiarly  known  as  the  Dud- 
ley trilobite.  I  scarce  know  on  what  principle  it  should  have 
occurred  ;  but  certainly  never  before,  even  when  considerably 
lew  familiar  with  the  wonders  of  Geology,  was  I  so  impressed 


112  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

by  the  appearance  of  marine  fossils  in  an  inland  district,  as 
among  these  wooded  solitudes.  Perhaps  the  peculiarity  of 
their  setting,  if  I  may  so  speak,  by  heightening  the  contrast 
between  their  present  circumstances  and  their  original  habitat, 
gave  increased  effect  to  their  appeals  to  the  imagination.  The 
green  ocean  depths  in  which  they  must  have  lived  and  died 
associate  strangely  in  the  mind  with  the  forest  retreats,  a  full 
hundred  miles  from  the  sea-shore,  in  which  their  remains  now 
lie  deposited.  Taken  with  their  accompaniments,  they  serve 
to  remind  one  of  that  style  of  artificial  grotto-work  in  which 
corals  and  shells  are  made  to  mingle  with  flowers  and  mosses. 
The  massy  cyathophyllum  sticks  out  of  the  sides  of  gray  lich- 
ened  rocks,  enclasped  by  sprigs  of  ivy,  or  overhung  by  twigs 
of  thorn  and  hazel ;  deep-sea  terebratulse  project  in  bold  relief 
from  amid  patches  of  the  delicate  wood  sorel ;  here  a  macerated 
jak-leaf,  vvith  all  its  skeleton  fibres  open  as  a  net,  lies  glued  by 
the  damps  beside  some  still  more  delicately  reticulated  festi- 
nella ;  there  a  tuft  of  graceful  harebells  projects  over  some 
prostrate  orthoceratite ;  yonder  there  peeps  out  from  amid  a 
drapery  of  green  liver-wort,  like  a  heraldic  helmet  from  the 
mantling,  the  armed  head  of  some  mailed  trilobite :  the  deep- 
•5ea  productions  of  the  most  ancient  of  creations  lie  grouped,  as 
with  an  eye  to  artistic  efTect,  amid  the  floral  productions  of  our 
own  times.  At  the  further  end  of  this  retired  dell,  so  full  of 
.nterest  to  the  geologist,  we  see,  where  the  rock  closes,'  two 
dark  openings  separated  by  a  rude  limestone  column.  One  of 
^hese  forms  a  sort  of  window  to  the  cavern  within,  so  exceed- 
ingly lofty  in  the  sill  as  to  be  inaccessible  to  the  explorer ; 
through  the  other  we  descend  along  a  damp,  mouldy  path,  and 
reach  the  twilight  bank  of  a  canal,  which  stretches  away  into 
the  darkness  between  two  gloomy  walls  of  rock  of  vast  height 
connected  half-way  up,  —  as  flooring-beams  connect  the  walls 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  113 

of  a  skeleton  building,  —  by  a  range  of  what  seems  mfters  of 
rock.  The  cavern  had  once  an  upper  story,  —  a  working  sep. 
arated  from  the  working  below  by  a  thin  sloping  floor ;  and 
these  stone  rafters  are  remains  of  the  floor,  left  as  a  sort  of 
reclining  buttresses,  to  support  the  walls.  They  form  one  ol 
the  most  picturesque  features  of  the  cavern,  straddling  over- 
head from  side  to  side,  and  receding  in  the  more  than  twilight 
gloom  of  the  place,  each  succeeding  rafter  dimmer  and  more 
dim,  in  proportion  to  its  distance  from  the  two  opening''  till 
the  last  becomes  so  indistinctly  visible,  that  if  but  a  cloud  pass 
over  the  sun,  it  disappears.  A  rustic  bridge  leads  across  the 
canal;  but  we  can  see  only  the  one  end  of  it,  —  the  other  is 
lost  in  the  blackness;  the  walls  and  floor  are  green  with 
mould  ;  the  dark  water  seems  a  sullen  river  of  pitch  :  we  may 
occasionally  mark  the  surface  dimpled  by  the  track  of  a  newt, 
or  a  toad  puffing  itself  up,  as  if  it  fed  on  vapor,  on  the  damp 
earthy  edge ;  but  other  inhabitants  the  cavern  has  none.  I 
bethought  me  of  the  wild  description  of  Kirke  White:  — 

"  And  as  she  entered  the  cavern  wide. 

The  moonbeam  gleamed  pale, 
And  she  saw  a  snake  on  the  craggy  rock,  — 

It  clung  by  its  slimy  tail.        ,, 
Her  foot  it  slipped,  and  she  stood  aghast, 

for  she  trod  on  a  bloated  toad." 

Solitary  as  the  place  usually  is,  it  presented  a  singularly  ani* 
mated  appearance  six  years  ago,  \»hen  it  was  visited  by  the 
members  of  the  British  Association,  and  converted  by  Sir 
Roderick  Murchison  into  a  geological  lecture-room.  He  dis- 
coursed of  rocks  and  fossils  in  the  bowels  of  the  hill,  with  the 
ponderous  strata  piled  high  on  every  side,  like  courses  of  Cy- 
clopean masonry,  and  the  stony  forms  of  the  dead  existing  by 
millions  around  him. 
10* 


114 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


But,  after  al ,  there  are  no  caverns  like  those  of  nature's 
naklng:  they  speak  to  the  imagination  in  a  bolder  and  freer 
style  than  any  mere  excavation  of  the  quarrier,  however  huge  ; 
and  we  find,  in  consequence,  that  they  have  almost  always 
engaged  tradition  in  their  behalf.  There  hangs  about  them 
some  old  legend  of  spectral  shapes  seen  flitting  across  the  twi 
light  vestibule ;  or  of  ancient  bearded  men,  not  of  this  world, 
standing,  porter-like,  beside  the  door;  or  of  somnolent  giants 
reposing  moodily  in  the  interior;  or  of  over-bold  explorers,  who 
wandered  so  deep  into  their  recesses  that  they  never  again 
returned  to  the  light  of  day.  I  bethought  me,  when  in  Sir 
Roderick's  lecture-room,  of  one  of  the  favorite  haunts  of  my 
boyhood,  —  a  solitary  cave,  ever  resounding  to  the  dash  of  the 
billows,  —  and  felt  its  superiority.  Hollowed  of  old  by  the 
waves  of  an  unfrequented  shore,  just  above  the  reach  of  the 
existing  tide-line,  —  its  gray  roof  bristling  with  stalactites,  its 
gray  floor  knobbed  with  stalagmite,  —  full  of  all  manner  of 
fantastic  dependencies  from  the  top  and  sides,  —  with  here 
little  dark  openings  branching  off"  into  the  living  rock,  and 
there  unfinished  columns  standing  out  from  it,  roughened  with 
fretted  irregularities,  and  beaded  with  dew,  —  with  a  dim  twi- 
light resting  even  at  noonday  within  its  further  recesses,  and 
steeped  in  an  atmosphere  of  unbreathing  silence,  rarely  broken 
save  by  the  dash  of  the  wave  or  the  shriek  of  the  sea-fowl,  — 
it  is  at  all  times  a  place  where  the  poetry  of  deep  seclusion 
may  be  felt,  —  the  true  hermit-feeling,  in  which  self  is  absorbed 
and  forgotten  amid  the  silent  sublimities  of  nature.  The  unfre- 
quent  visiter  scares  the  seal  from  the  mid-tide  rock  in  the  open- 
ing, or  encounters  the  startled  otter  in  its  headlong  retreat  to 
the  sea.  But  it  seemed  redolent,  when  I  last  saw  it,  of  a  still 
higher  poetry.  Night  had  well-nigh  fallen,  though  the  nearly 
/atquished  daylight  still  struggled  with  the  darkness.  The 
::^a  '>n  a*  full  rose  slowly  over  the  sea. 


ENGLAND    AND     :TS    PEOPLE.  115 

"All  pale  and  dim,  aa  if  from  rest 
The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sua 
Had  crept  into  the  skies." 

The  le-'ei  Jeam  fell  along  a  lonely  coast,  on  brown  precipice 
and  gray  p.bhly  shore,  here  throwing  into  darker  shade  somo 
wooded  recess,  there  soliciting  into  prominence  some  tall  cliff 
whitened  by  the  cormorant.  The  dark-browed  precipice,  in 
which  the  cavern  is  hollowed,  stood  out  in  doubtful  relief; 
while  the  cavern  itself — bristling  gray  with  icicles,  that 
showed  like  the  tags  of  a  dead  dress  —  seemed  tenanted,  in 
the  exaggerative  gloom,  with  all  manner  of  suggestive  shapes. 
Here  a  sheeted  uncertainty  sat  beside  the  wall,  or  looked  out 
from  one  of  the  darker  openings  upon  the  sea  ;  there  a  broken 
skeleton  seemed  grovelling  upon  the  floor.  There  was  a  wild 
luxury  in  calling  to  mind,  as  one  gazed  from  the  melancholy 
interior  on  the  pale  wake  of  the  moon,  that  for  miles  on  either 
hand  there  was  not  a  human  dwelling,  save  the  deserted  hut 
of  a  fisherman  who  perished  in  a  storm.  The  reader  may 
perhaps  remember,  that  in  exactly  such  a  scene  does  the  poet 
Coll-.ns  find  a  home  for  his  sublime  personification  of  Feur. 

"  Say,  wilt  thou  shroud  in  haunted  cell, 

Or  in  some  hollowed  seat, 

'Gainst  which  the  big  waves  beat, 
With  shuJilering,  meek,  submitted  thought, 
Hear  drowning  seamen's  cries  in  tempests  brought  ?  " 

I  spent  the  greater  part  of  a  week  among  the  fossiliferous 
deposits  of  Dudley,  and  succeeded  in  procuring  a  tolerably  fail 
set  of  fossils,  and  in  cultivating  a  tolerably  competent  acquaint- 
ance with  the  appearances  which  they  exhibit  in  their  various 
states  of  keeping.  It  is  an  important  matter  to  educate  the 
eye.  Should  there  be  days  of  hea  th  and  the  exploration  of 
the  Scottish  Grauwacke  in  store  for  nie.  I  may  find  my  brief 


\  16  FTRST    IMPRESSIONS    OP 

sojourn  among  the  English  Silurians  of  some  little  advantagd 
Fossils  in  our  ancient  southern  deposits  are  exceedingly  rare ; 
and  there  is,  in  consequence,  a  lack  of  data  by  which  to  ascer 
tain  the  age  of  the  formations  in  which  they  occur,  and  which 
they  fail  sufficiently   to   mark.     The    tablets   are    devoid    of 
inscriptions,  save  that  we  here   and  there  find  a  half-effaced 
character,  or  the   outline   of  some   sorely  worn   hieroglyphic. 
And  yet,  had  the  few  fossils  hitherto  discovered  been  preserved 
and  brought  together,  their  joint  testimony  might  be  found  to 
amount  to  something.     The  Graptolites  of  Peebles-shire  and 
Galloway  are  tolerably  well  known  as  identical  with  English 
species, —^  the  Graptolithus  Ludensis  and  Graptolithus  foliaceus, 
—  which  possess,  however,  a  wide  range  in  the  more  ancient 
rocks,  passing  downwards  from  beds  of  the  Upper  Silurian,  to 
deposits  that  lie  deep  in  what  was  once  termed  the  Cambrian 
series.     In  Peebles-shire,  at  Wrae-hill.  says  Mr.  Nicol,  shells 
have  been  detected  in  a  Grauwacke  limestone,  now  unluckily 
no  longer  accessible.     It  is  stated  by  Mr.  Maclaren,  in  his  elab- 
orate and  singularly  satisfactory  Treatise  on  the  Geology  of 
t^ife  and  the  Lolhians,  that  he  succeeded  in  disinterring  two 
organisms,  —  a  small  orthoceratite,  and  what  seemed  to  be  a 
confused  accumulation  of  the  shattered  fragments  of  minute 
trilobites,  —  from  out  of  one  of  the  Grauwacke  patches  which 
occur  among  the  Pentlands.     I  have  been  informed  by  the  late 
Mr.  William  Laidlaw,  the  trusted  friend  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
that  he  once  disinterred  a  large  bivalve  from  amid  the  Grau- 
wackes  of  Selkirkshire.     The  apparent  remains  of  broken  tere- 
bratulcE  haA^e  been  found  in  various  localities  in  the  Grauwacke 
of  Galloway,  and  atrypae  and  tentaculites  in  a  rather  equivocal 
deposit  at  Girvan,  deemed  Silurian.     Were  the  various  scat- 
tered fragments  of  the  fossiliferous  record  to  be  brought  care- 
fully to  gether,  ^hey  might^be  found  sufficiently  complete  to  give 


ENiLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  117 

one  at  l^ast  a  lew  definite  ideas  regarding  the  times  which 
preceded  in  Scotland  the  age  of  the  Coccosteus  and  Pterichthys. 
There  wons  a  barber  in  Dudley,  who  holds  a  sort  of  fossil 
agency  between  the  quarrier  and  the  public,  of  whom  I  pur- 
chased several  fine  trilobites, —  one  of  them,  at  least,  in  the 
most  perfect  state  o.*  keeping  1  have  yet  seen :  the  living  crea- 
ture could  not  have  been  more  complete  in  every  plate  and 
joint  of  the  head  and  back ;  but,  as  in  all  the  other  specimens 
of  trilobite  known  to  the  geologist,  it  presents  no  trace  of  the 
abdominal  portion.  I  procured  another  specimen  rolled  up  in 
the  peculiar  ball-form  so  often  figured,  with  the  tail  in  contact 
with  the  head.  It  seems  not  unworthy  of  remark,  that  the 
female  lobster,  when  her  spawn  is  ripening  in  an  external  patch 
on  her  abdomen,  affects  for  its  protection  the  same  rolled  form. 
Her  dorsal  plates  curv^e  round  from  the  joint  at  the  carpace, 
till  the  tail-flap  rests  on  her  breast ;  and  the  multitudinous 
dark-colored  eggs,  which,  having  no  hard  shell  of  their  own 
to  protect  them,  would  be  otherwise  exposed  to  every  hungry 
marauder  of  the  deep,  are  thus  covered  up  by  the  strorig  mail 
with  which  the  animal  is  herself  protected.  When  we  take 
the  fact  into  account,  that  in  no  specimen  of  trilobite,  however 
well  preserved,  do  we  find  abdominal  plates,  and  that  the  ball- 
like form  is  so  exceedingly  common,  may  we  not  infer  that  this 
ancient  crustacean  was  shelled  on  but  the  back  and  head,  and 
that  it  coiled  itself  round,  to  protect  a  defenceless  abdomen,  in 
the  manner  the  female  lobster  coils  itself  round  to  protect  its 
defenceless  spawn  ?  In  yet  another  specimen  which  I  purchased 
from  the  barber  there  is  an  eye  of  the  Asaf.hus  Caudatus,  which 
presents,  in  a  state  of  tolerable  keeping,  its  numerous  rows  of 
facets.  So  far  as  is  yet  known,  the  eye  which  first  saw  the 
light  on  this  ancient  earth  of  ours  gave  access  to  it  through 
^oiir  hundred  and  fifty  distinct  spherical  lenses.     The  barber 


I  18  FIRST    IMPRE   SIGNS    OF 

had  been  in  th  t  way  of  selling  Dudley  fossils,  he  told  ine,  for  a 
good  many  years ;  and  his  father  had  been  in  the  way  of  sell- 
ing them  for  a  good  many  more ;  but  neither  he  nor  his  father 
had  ever  seen  among  them  any  portion  of  an  ichthyolite.  The 
crustaceans,  with  their  many-jointed  plates  and  many-windowed 
eyes,  an,  so  far  r.s  is  yet  known,  the  highest  organisms  of  the 
deposit. 


ENOI.ANO    ANT)    ITS    PKOIT.E  •  '  0 


CHAPTER    ri. 

Htcurbiidge.  —  EfTeit  of  Plutonic  Convulsion  on  ti  i  surro  indii  5  Scenery, 

—  Hagley  ;  Description  in  the  "  Seasons."  —  Ge  logy  the  true  Anatomy 
of  Laidscape.  —  Geologic  Sketch  of  Hagley.  —  The  Road  to  the  Races. 

—  The  old  Stone-cutter.  —  Thomson's  Hollow.  —  His  visits  to  Hagley. 

—  Sheustone's  Urn.  —  Peculiarities  of  Taste  founded  often  on  a  Sub- 
stratum of  Personal  Character.  —  Illustration.  —  Rousseau.  —  Pope's 
Haunt.  —  Lyttehon's  high  Admiration  of  the  Genius  of  Pope.  —  De- 
scription.—  Singularly  extensive  and  beautiful  Landscape;  drawn  by 
Thomson.  —  Reflection. —  Amazing  Multiplicity  of  the  Prospect  illus- 
trative of  a  Peculiarity  in  the  Descriptions  of  the  "Seasons."  —  Addi- 
son's Canon  on  Laiidsca])e  ;  corroborated  by  Shenstone. 

I  LEFT  Dudley  by  the  morning  coach  for  Stourbridge,  and 
arrived,  all  unwittingly,  during  the  bustle  of  its  season  of  peri- 
odic license,  —  the  yearly  races.  Stourbridge  is  merely  a 
smaller  Wolverhampton,  —  built  on  the  same  lower  deposit  of 
the  New  Red  Sandstone,  of  the  same  sort  of  red  brick,  and 
roofed  and  floored  with  the  same  sort  of  red  tiles.  The  sur- 
rounding country  is,  however,  more  pleasingly  varied  by  hill 
and  valley.  Plutonic  convulsion  from  beneath  has  given  to  the 
flat  incoherent  formation  a  diversity  of  surface  not  its  own ; 
and  we  see  it  tempested  into  waves,  over  the  unseen  trappean 
masses,  like  ocean  over  the  back  of  some  huge  sea-monster. 
In  passing  on  to  the  south  and  west,  one  finds  bolder  and  still 
bolder  inequalities  of  surface  ;  the  hills  rise  higher,  and  are 
more  richly  wooded,  until  at  length,  little  more  than  three 
miles  from  Stourbridge,  in  a  locality  where  the  disturbing  rock 
has  broken  through,  and  forms  a  chain  of  picturesque  trap 
eminences,  there  may  be  seen  some  of  at  once  the  finest  and 


liiO  FJKST    IMPRKSSIOWtJ    OP 

most  celebrated  scenery  in  England.  Certainly  for  no  scenery 
either  at  home  or  abroad,  has  the  Muse  done  more.  Who, 
acquainted  with  the  poetry  of  the  last  century,  has  not  heard 
of  Hagley,  the  "  British  Tempe,"  so  pleasingly  sung  by  Thom- 
son in  his  "  Seasons."  and  so  iritiinately  associated,  in  the  verse 
of  Pope,  Shenstone,  and  Hammond,  with  the  Lord  Lyttelton 
of  English  literature  ?  It  was  to  walk  over  Hagley  that  I  had 
now  turned  aside  half-a-day's  journey  out  of  my  purposed  route. 
Rather  more  from  accident  than  choice,  there  were  no  poets 
with  whom  I  had  formed  so  early  an  acquaintance  as  with  the 
English  poets  who  flourished  in  the  times  of  Queen  Anne  and 
the  first  two  Georges.  I  had  come  to  be  scarce  less  familiar 
with  Hagley  and  the  Leasowes,  in  consequence,  than  Reuben 
Butler,  when  engaged  in  mismanaging  his  grandmother's  farm, 
with  the  agriculture  of  the  "  Georgics ;  "  and  here  was  my  first. 
opportunity,  after  the  years  of  half  a  lifetime,  had  come  and 
gone,  of  comparing  the  realities  as  they  now  exist,  with  the 
early  conceptions  I  had  formed  of  them.  My  ideas  of  Hagley 
had  been  derived  chiefly  from  Thomson,  with  whose  descrip- 
tions, though  now  considerably  less  before  the  reading  public 
than  they  have  been,  most  of  my  readers  must  be  in  some 
degree  acquainted. 

"  The  love  of  Nature  works, 
And  warms  the  bosom ;  till  at  last,  sublimed 
To  rapture  and  enthusiastic  neat. 
We  feel  the  present  Deity,  and  taste  . 
The  joy  of  God  to  see  a  happy  world  ! 
These  are  the  sacred  feelings  of  thj'  heart, 
O  Lyttelton,  the  friend  !     Thy  passions  thus 
And  meditations  vary,  as  at  large, 
Courting  the  Muse,  through  Hagley  Park  thou  strayest. 
The  British  Tempe  !     There  along  the  dale. 
With  woods  o'erhung,  and  shagged  with  mossy  rocks. 
Where  on  each  hand  the  gushing  waters  play, 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  121 

And  down  the  rough  cascade  white  dashing  fall, 

Or  gleam  in  lengthened  vista  through  the  trees, 

You  silent  steal,  or  sit  beneath  the  shade 

Of  solemn  oaks  that  tuft  the  swelling  mounts, 

Thrown  graceful  round  by  Nature's  careless  hand. 

And  pensive  listen  to  the  various  voice 

Of  rural  peace,  —  the  herds,  the  flocks,  the  birds. 

The  hollow  whispering  breeze,  the  plaint  of  rills. 

That,  purling  down  amid  the  twisted  roots 

Which  creep  around,  their  dewy  murmurs  shaka 

On  the  soothed  ear." 

In  all  the  various  descriptions  of  Hagley  and  the  Leasowea 
which  I  have  yet  seen,  however  elaborate  and  well-written,  I 
have  found  such  a  want  of  leading  outlines,  that  I  could  never 
form  a  distinct  conception  of  either  place  as  a  whole.  The  • 
writer  —  whether  a  Thomson  or  a  Dodsley  —  introduced  me  to 
shaded  walks  and  open  lawns,  swelling  eminences  and  seques- 
tered hollows,  wooded  recesses  with  their  monumental  urns, 
and  green  hill-tops  with  their  crowning  obelisks ;  but,  though 
the  details  were  picturesquely  given,  1  have  always  missed 
distinct  lines  of  circumvallation  to  separate  and  characterize 
from  the  surrounding  country  the  definite  locality  in  which 
they  were  included.  A  minute  anatomical  acquaintance 
with  the  bones  and  muscles  is  deemed  essential  to  the  painter 
»vho  grapples  with  the  difficulties  of  the  human  figure.  Per- 
haps, when  the  geological  vocabulary  shall  have  become  better 
incorporated  than  at  present  with  the  language  of  our  common 
literature,  a  similar  acquaintance  with  the  stony  science  will 
be  found  scarce  less  necessary  to  the  writer  who  describes  nat- 
ural scenery.  Geology  forms  the  true  anatomy  —  the  genuine 
Osteology  —  of  landscape  ;  and  a  correct  representation  of  the 
geologica  skeleton  of  a  locality  will  be  yet  regarded,  I  doubt 
not,  as  the  true  mode  of  imparting  adequate  ideas  of  its  char- 
acteristic outlines.  The  osteology  of  Hagley,  if  I  may  si  speak. 
11 


122 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


is  easily  definable.     On  the  southern  shore  of  the  Dudley  coal* 
basin,  and  about  two  miles  from  its  edge,  there  rises  in  the 
New  Red  Sandstone  a  range  of  trap  hills  about  se  /en  miles  in 
length,  kno\vn  as  the  Clent  Hills,  which  vary  in  height  from 
six  to  eight  hundred  feet  over  the  level  of  the  sea.     They  lie 
parallel,    in   their   general    direction,   to   the    Silurian    range, 
already  described  as  rising,  like  a  chain  of  islands,  amid  the 
coal ;  but,  though  parallel,  they  are,  like  the  f-ides  of  the  par- 
allel ruler  of  the  geometrician  when  fully  stretched,  not  oppo- 
site; the  southernmost  hill  of  the  Silurian  range  lying  scarce 
so  far  to  the  south  as  the  northernmost  hill  of  the  trap  range. 
The   New  Red    Sandstone,  out   of  which    the    latter   arises, 
.  forms  a  rich,  slightly  undulating  country,  reticulated  by  many 
a  green  lane  and  luxuriant  hedge-row;  the  hills  themselves  are 
deeply  scoped   by  hollow  dells,  furrowed   by  shaggy  ravines, 
and  roughened  by  confluent  eminences;    and  on  the  south- 
western slopes  of  one  of  the  finest  and  most  variegated  of  the 
range,  half  on  the  comparatively  level  red  sandstone,  half  on 
the  steep-sided  billowy  trap,  lie  the  grounds  of  Hagley.     Let 
the  Edinburgh  reader  imagine  such  a  trap  hill  as  that  which, 
rises  on  the  north-east  between  Arthur's   Seat  and   the   sea, 
tripled  or  quadrupled  in  its  extent  of  base,  hollowed  by  dells 
and  ravines  of  considerable  depth,  covered  by  a  soil  capable  of 
sustaining  the  noblest  trees,  mottled  over  with  votive   urns, 
temples,  and  obelisks,  and  traversed  by  many  a  winding  walk, 
skilfully  designed  to  lay  open  every  beauty  of  the  place,  and  he 
will  have  no  very  inadequate  idea  of  the  British  Tempe  sung  by 
Thomson.     We  find  its  loveliness  compounded  of  two  simple 
geologic  elements,  —  that  abrupt  and  variegated  picturesque- 
ness  for  which  the  trap  rocks  are  so  famous,  and  which  may  be 
seen  so  strikingly  illustrated  in  the  neighborhood  of  Edinburgh  ; 
and  that  soft-lined  and  level  beauty,  —  an  exquisite  componenl 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


123 


m  landscape  when  it  does  not  stand  too  much  alone,  —  so 
characteristic,  in  many  localities,  of  the  Lower  New  Red  Sand- 
stone formation. 

I  was  fortunate  in  a  clear,  pleasant  day,  in  which  a  dappled 
sky  over  head  threw  an  agreeable  mottling  of  light  and  shadow 
on  the  green  earth  beloAV.     The  road  to  Hagley  was  also  that 
to  the  races,  and  so  there  were  many  passengers.     There  were 
carts  and  wagons  rumbling  forward,  crowded  with  eager  ruddy 
faces  of  the  round  Saxon  type  ;  and  gigs  and  carriages  in  which 
the  faces  seemed  somewhat  less  eager,  and  were  certainly  lesa 
ruddy  and  round.     There  were  numerous  parties,  too,  hurrying 
afoot :  mechanics  from  the  nearer  towns,  with  pale  unsunned 
complexions,  that    reminded    one  of   the    colorless  vegetation 
which  springs  up  in  vaults  and  cellars ;  stout,  jovial  plough- 
men, redolent,  in  look  and  form,  of  the  open  sky  and  the  fresh 
air;  bevies  of  young  girls  in  gJT^sy  bonnets,  full  of  an  exuber- 
ant merriment,  that  flowed  out  in  laughter  as  they  went;  and 
bands  of  brown  Irish  reapers,  thrown  out  of  their  calculations 
by  the  backward  harvest,  with  their  idle  hooks  slung  on  their 
shoulders,  and  fluttering  in  rags  in  a  country  in  which  one  saw 
no  rags  but  their  own.     And  then  there  came,  in  long  proces- 
sion, the  boys  of  a  free-school,  headed  by  their  masters ;  and 
then  the  girls  of  another  free-school,  with  their  mistresses  by 
their  side ;  but  the  boys  and  girls  were  bound,  I  was  told,  not 
for  the  races,  but  for  a  pleasant  recess  among  the  Clent  Hills, 
famous  for  its  great  abundance  of  nuts  and  blackberries,  in 
which  they  were  permitted  to  spend  once  a-year,  during  the 
season  of  general  liceii^e,  a  compensatory  holiday.      To   the 
right  of  the  road,  for  mile  beyond  mile,  field  succeeds  field, 
each  sheltered  by  its  own  rows  of  trees,  stuck  into  broad  waste- 
ful hedges,  and  which,  as  they  seem  crowded  together  Jn  the 
distance,  ga'e  to  the  remote  landscape  the  character  of  a  ferest 


124 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


On  the  left,  the  ground  rises  picturesque  and  high,  and  richly 
wooded,  forming  ihe  first  beginnings  of  the  Clent  Hills;  and 
I  could  already  see  before  me,  where  the  sky  and  the  hill  met, 
the  tufted  vegetation  and  pointed  obelisk  of  Hagley. 

I  baited  at  Hagley  village  to  take  a  glass  of  cider,  which 
the  warmth  of  the  day  and  the  dustiness  of  the  road  rendered 
exceedingly  grateful ;  and  entered  into  conversation  with  an 
old  griy-headed  man,  of  massive  frame  and  venerable  counte- 
nance, who  was  engaged  by  the  wayside  in  sawing  into  slabs 
a  large  block  of  New  Red  Sandstone.  The  process,  though  I 
had  hewn,  as  I  told  him,  a  great  many  stones  in  Scotland,  was 
new  to  me ;  and  so  I  had  not  a  few  questions  to  ask  regarding 
it,  which  he  answered  with  patient  civility.  The  block  on 
which  he  was  operating  measured  about  six  feet  in  length  by 
four  in  breadth,  and  was  from  eighteen  to  twenty  inches  in 
thickness ;  and  he  was  cutting  it  by  three  draughts,  parallel  to 
its  largest  plane,  into  four  slabs.  Each  draught,  he  said,  would 
employ  him  about  four  days ;  and  the  formation  of  the  slabs 
each  containing  a  superficies  of  aboui  twenty-four  feet,  at  least 
a  fortnight.  He  purposed  fashioning  them  into  four  tomb- 
stones. Nearly  half  his  time  was  occupied,  he  reckoned,  in 
sawing,  —  rather  hard  work  for  an  old  man ;  and  his  general 
employment  consisted  chiefly  in  fashioning  the  soft  red  sand- 
stone into  door-pieces,  and  window-soles,  and  lintels,  which, 
.n  the  better  brick-houses  in  this  locality,  are  usually  of  stone, 
tastefully  carved.  His  saw  was  the  common  toothless  saw  of 
the  marble-cutter,  fixed  in  a  heavy  wooden  frame,  and  sus- 
pended by  a  rope  from  a  projecting  beam ;  and  the  process 
of  working  consisted  simply  in  swinging  it  in  the  line  of  the 
draught.  I  would  have  no  difficulty,  he  informed  me,  in  gei- 
tirg  admission  to  the  Lyttelton  grounds  :  I  had  but  to  walk  up 
to  tlie  gjirdener's  lodge,  and  secure  the  services  of  one  of  th» 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLh.  125 

under  gardeners;  and,  under  his  surveillance,  I  might  wander 
over  the  place  as  long  as  I  pleased.  At  one  time,  he  said, 
people  might  enter  the  park  when  they  willed,  without  guide 
or  guard;  but  the  public,  left  to  its  own  discretion,  had  behaved 
remarkably  ill  :  it  had  thrown  down  the  urns,  and  chipped  the 
obelisks,  and  scrabbled  worse  than  nonsense  on  the  columns 
and  the  trees  ;  and  so  it  had  to  be  set  under  a  keeper,  to  insure 
better  behavior. 

I  succeeded  in  securing  the  guidance  of  one  of  the  gardeners  ; 
and  passing  with  him  through  part  of  the  garden,  and  a  small 
but  well-kept  greenhouse,  we  emerged  into  the  park,  and  be- 
gan to  ascend  the  hill  by  a  narrow  inartificial  path,  that  winds, 
in  alternate  sunshine  and  shadow,  as  the  trees  approach  or 
recede,  through  the  rich  moss  of  the  lawn.  Half  way'  up  the 
ascent,  where  rhe  hill-side  is  indented  by  a  deep,  irregularly 
semi-circular  depression,  open  and  grassy  in  the  bottom  and 
sides,  but  thickly  garnished  along  the  rim  with  noble  trees, 
there  is  a  semi-octagonal  temple,  dedicated  to  the  genms  of 
Thomson,  —  "a  sublime  poet,"  says  the  inscription,  "and  a 
good  man,"  who  greatly  loved,  when  living,  this  hollow  retreat 
I  looked  with  no  little  interest  on  the  scenery  that  had  satisried 
so  great  a  master  of  landscape ;  and  thought,  though  it  might 
be  but  ftincy,  that  I  succeeded  in  detecting  the  secret  of  his 
admiration ;  and  that  the  specialties  of  his  taste  in  the  case 
rested,  as  they  not  unfrequently  do  in  such  cases,  on  a  sub- 
stratum ol"  personal  character.  The  green  hill  spreads  out  its 
mossy  arms  around,  like  the  arms  of  a  well-padded  easy-chair 
of  enormous  proportions,  imparting,  from  the  complete  seclusion 
and  shelter  which  it  aftbrds,  luxurious  ideas  of  personal  secu- 
rit}  and  ease ;  while  the  open  front  pennits  the  eye  to  expatiate 
on  an  expansive  and  lovely  landscape.  We  see  the  ground 
»mmed  itel}'  in  front  occupied  by  an  uneven  sea  of  tre  j-tops 


126  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OP 

chiefly  oaks  of  noble  size,  that  rise,  at  various  levels,  on  ihe 
lower  slopes  of  the  park.  The  clear  sunshine  imparted  to 
them  this  day  exquisite  variegations  of  fleecy  light  and  shad- 
ow. They  formed  a  billowy  ocean  of  green,  that  seemed  as 
if  WTOught  in  floss  silk.  Far  beyond  —  for  the  nearer  fields 
of  the  level  country  are  hidden  by  the  oaks  —  lies  a  blue  laby- 
rinth of  hedge-rows,  stuck  over  with  trees,  and  so  crowded  to- 
gether in  the  distance,  that  they  present,  as  has  already  been 
said,  a  forest-like  appearance  ;  while,  still  further  beyond,  there 
stretches  along  the  horizon  a  continuous  purple  screen,  com- 
posed of  the  distant  highlands  of  Cambria. 

Such  is  the  landscape  which  Thomson  loved.  And  here  he 
used  to  saunter,  the  laziest  and  best-natured  of  mortal  men, 
with  an  imagination  full  of  many-colored  conceptions,  by  far 
the  larger  part  of  them  never  to  be  realized,  and  a  quiet  eye, 
that  took  in  without  effort,  and  stamped  on  the  memory,  every 
meteoric  effect  of  a  changeful  climate,  which  threw  its  tints  of 
gloom  or  of  gladness  over  the  diversified  prospect.  The  images 
sunk  into  the  quiescent  mind  as  the  silent  shower  sinks  into 
the  crannies  and  fissures  of  the  soil,  to  come  gushing  out,  at 
some  future  day,  in  those  springs  of  poetry  which  so  sparkle  in 
the  "  Seasons,"  or  that  glide  in  such  quiet  yet  lustrous  beauty 
through  that  most  finished  of  English  poems,  the  "Castle  of 
Indolence."  Never  before  or  since  was  there  a  man  of  geniua 
wrought  out  of  such  mild  and  sluggish  elements  as  the  bard  of 
ihe  "  Seasons."  A  listless  man  was  James  Thomson  ;  kindly- 
hearted;  much  loved  by  all  his  friends;  little  given  to  think 
ofhimself;  who  "loathed  much  to  write,  ne  cared  to  repeat."* 
And  to  Hagley  he  used  to  come,  as  Shenstone  tells  us,  in  "  a 

*  Ihe  stanza  in  the  "  Castle  of  Indolence,"  "  by  another  hand,"  which 
portrays  ?o  happily  the  character  of  Thomson,  was  written  by  Lyttelton  • 
»ud  there  are  perhaps  more  of  those  felicities  of  phrase  which  sink  into 


EN3LANL    AND    ITS    PEOPI  E.  ]27 

hired  chaise,  drawn  by  two  horses  ranged  lengthwise,"  to  lie 
abed  till  long-  past  rnid-day,  because  he  had  "  nae  motive"  to 
rise ;  and  to  browse  in  the  gardens  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
peaches,  with  his  hands  stuck  in  his  pockets.  He  was  hourly 
expected  at  Hagley  on  one  of  his  many  visits,  when  the  intelli- 
gence came,  instead,  of  his  death.  With  all  his  amazing  inert- 
ness, he  must  have  been  a  lovable  man,  —  an  essentially  difTer- 
ent  sort  of  person  from  either  of  his  two  poetical  Scotch  acquaint- 
ances. Mallet  or  Armstrong.  Quin  wept  for  him  no  feigned 
tears  on  the  boards  of  the  theatre ;  poor  Collins,  a  person  of 
warm  and  genial  affections,  had  gone  to  live  beside  him  at 
Richmond,  but  on  his  death  quitted  the  place  forever;  even 
Shenstone,  whose  nature  it  was  to  think  much  and  often  of 
himself,  felt  life  grow  darker  at  his  departure,  and,  true  to  his 
hobby,  commemorated  him  in  an  urn,  on  the  principle  on 
which  the  late  Lord  Buchan  was  so  solicitous  to  bury  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott.  "  He  was  to  have  been  at  Hagley  this  week,"  we 
find  Shenstone  saying,  in  a  letter  dated  from  the  Leasowes,  in 
which  he  records  his  death,  "and  then  I  should  probably  have 
seen  him  here.  As  it  is,  I  will  erect  an  urn  in  Virgil's  Grove 
to  his  memory.  1  was  really  as  much  shocked  to  hear  of  his 
death  as  if  I  had  known  and  loved  him  for  a  number  of  year: 

the  memory  of  a  people,  in  the  nine  lines  of  which  it  consists,  than  in  anj 
Biugle  poem  of  ten  times  the  length  his  Lordship  ever  produced. 

"  A  bard  here  dwelt,  more  fat  than  bard  beseems. 

Who,  void  of  envy,  guile,  and  lust  of  gain, 
On  virtue  still,  and  nature's  pleasing  themes, 

Poured  forth  his  unpremeditated  strain  ; 
The  world  forsaking  with  a  calm  disdain, 

Here  laughed  he  careless  in  his  easy  seat ; 
Here  quaffed,  encircled  with  the  joyous  train, — 

Oft  moralizing  sage  :  his  ditty  sweet 
He  loathed  much  to  write,  ne  cared  to  repeiit.'* 


J  28  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

(Jod  linows,  I  lean  on  a  very  few  friends,  and  if  they  drop  me 
I  become  a  wretched  ni  isanthrope." 

Passing  upwards  from  Thomson's  hollow,  we  reach  a  second 
and  more  secluded  depression  in  the  hill-side,  associated  with 
the  memory  of  Shenstone ;  and  see  at  the  head  of  a  solitary 
ravine  a  white  pedestal,  bearing  an  urn.  The  trees  droop 
their  branches  so  thickly  around  it,  that,  when  the  eye  first 
detects  it  in  the  shade,  it  seems  a  retreating  figure,  wrapped 
up  in  a  winding-sheet.  The  inscription  is  eulogistic  of  the 
poet's  character  and  genius,  "  In  his  verses,"  it  tells  us,  with 
a  quiet  elegance,  in  which  we  at  once  recognize  the  hand  of 
Lyttelton,  "were  all  the  natural  graces,  and  in  his  manners  all 
the  amiable  simplicity  of  pastoral  poetry,  with  the  sweet  ten- 
derness of  the  elegiac."  This  secluded  ravine  seems  scarce 
less  characteristic  of  the  author  of  the  "  Ode  to  Rural  Ele- 
gance," and  the  "  Pastoral  Ballad,"  than  the  opener  hollow 
below,  of  the  poet  of  the  "  Seasons."  There  is  no  great  ex- 
pansion of  view,  of  which,  indeed,  Shenstone  was  no  admirer. 
"  Prospects,"  he  says,  in  his  "  Canons  on  Landscape,"  "  should 
never  take  in  the  blue  hills  so  remotely  that  they  be  not  dis- 
tinguishable from  clouds;  yet  this  mere  extent  is  what  the  vul- 
gar value."  Thomson,  however,  though  not  quite  one  of  the 
vulgar,  valued  it  too.  As  seen  from  his  chosen  recess,  the 
blue  of  the  distant  hills  seems  melting  into  the  blue  of  the  sky  ; 
or.  as  he  himself  better  describes  the  dim  outline, 

"  The  Cambrian  mountains,  like  f;ir  clouds. 
That  skirt  the  blue  horizon,  dusky  rise." 

It  is  curious  enough  to  find  two  men,  both  remarkable  for  theil 
nice  sense  of  the  beautiful  in  natural  scenery,  at  issue  on  sc 
important  a  point;  but  the  diversity  of  their  tastes  indicates, 
one  r.\ay  v^^nture  to  surmise,  not  tnly  the  opposite  character  of 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  129 

their  genius,  but  of  their  dispositions  also.  Shenstone  was 
naturally  an  egotist,  and,  like  Rousseau,  scarce  ever  contem- 
plated a  landscape  without  some  tacit  reference  to  the  space 
occupied  in  it  by  himself.  "  An  air  of  greatness,"  remarks  the 
infirm  philosopher  of  Geneva,  "has  always  something  melan- 
choly in  it:  it  leads  us  to  consider  the  wretchedness  of  those 
who  affect  it.  In  the  midst  of  extended  grass-plats  and  fine 
walks,  the  little  individual  does  not  grow  greater ;  a  tree  of 
iwenty  feet  high  will  shelter  him  as  well  as  one  of  sixty;  he 
never  occupies  a  space  of  more  than  three  feet ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  his  immense  possessions,  is  lost  like  a  poor  worm." 
Alas  !  it  was  but  a  poor  worm,  ever  brooding  over  its  own  mean 
dimensions,  —  ever  thinking  of  the  little  entity  self,  and  jealous, 
in  its  egotism,  of  even  the  greatness  of  nature,  —  that  could  have 
moralized  in  a  strain  so  unwholesome.  Thomson,  the  least  ego- 
tistic of  all  poets,  had  no  such  jealousy  in  his  composition.  In- 
stead of  feeling  himself  lost  in  any  save  vignette  landscapes,  it 
was  his  delight,  wholly  forgetful  of  self  and  its  minute  measure- 
ments, to  make  landscapes  even  larger  than  the  life,  —  to  become 
all  eye,  —  and,  by  adding  one  long  reach  of  the  vision  to  another, 
to  take  in  a  kingdom  at  a  glance.  There  are  few  things  finer 
in  FuTlish  poetry  than  the  description  in  which,  on  this  princi« 
nle,  he  hys  all  Scotland  at  once  upon  the  canvas. 

"  Here  a  while  the  Muse, 
High  hovering  o'er  the  broad  cerulean  scene, 
Seeu  Caledonia  in  romantic  view  ; 
Her  airy  mountains,  from  the  waving  main 
Invested  with  a  keen  ditl'iisive  sky, 
Breathing  the  soul  acute  ;  her  forests  huge, 
Incult,  robust,  and  tall,  by  Nature's  hand 
Planted  of  old  ;  her  azure  lakes  between. 
Poured  out  extensive,  and  her  watery  wealth 
Full  ;  winding  deep  and  green  her  fertile  vales  : 
With  mani  a  cool  translucent  brimming  flood 


'30 


FIB  ST  I]\:pressions  of 


Washed  lovely,  from  the  Tweed  (pure  parent  stream. 
Whose  pastoral  banks  first  heard  my  Doric  reed. 
With  sylvan  Jed,  thy  tributary  brook). 
To  where  the  north's  inflated  tempest  foams 
O'er  Orca's  or  Betubium's  highest  peak." 

Sheiistony's  recess,  true  to  his  character,  excludes,  as  I  hxve 
said,  the  distant  landscape.  It  is,  however,  an  exceedingly 
pleasing,  though  somewhat  gloomy  spot,  shut  up  on  every  side 
by  the  encircling  hills,  —  here  feathered  with  wood,  there  pro- 
jecting its  soft  undulating  line  of  green  against  the  blue  sky  ; 
while,  occupying  the  bottom  of  the  hollow,  there  is  a  small 
sheltered  lake,  with  a  row  of  delicate  lines,  that  dip  thei' 
pendent  branches  in  the  water. 

Yet  a  little  further  on,  we  descend  into  an  opener  and  more 
varied  inflection  in  the  hilly  region  of  Hagley,  which  is  said  to 
have  been  as  favorite  a  haunt  of  Pope  as  the  two  others  of 
Thomson  and  Shenstone,  and  in  which  an  elaborately-carved 
urn  and  pedestal  records  Lyttelton's  estimate  of  his  powers  aa 
a  writer,  and  his  aims  as  a  moralist:  "the  sweetest  and  most 
elegant,"  says  the  inscription,  "of  English  poets;  the  severest 
chastiser  of  vice,  and  the  most  persuasive  teacher  of  wisdom." 
Lyttelton  and  Pope  seem  to  have  formed  mutually  high  esti 
mates  of  each  other's  powers  and  character.  In  the  "  Satires," 
we  find  three  several  compliments  paid  to  the  "  young  Lyttel- 
ton," 

"  Still  true  to  virtue,  and  as  warm  as  true." 

And  when,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  one  of  Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole's  supporters  accused  the  rising  statesman  of  being  the 
facile  associate  of  an  "unjust  and  licentious  lampooner,"  — 
for,  as  Sir  Robert's  administration  was  corrupt  and  the  satirist 
severe,  such  was  Pope's  character  in  the  estimate  of  the  minis- 
teri#'l  majority,  — he  rose  indignantly  to  say,  "that  he  deemed 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PKOPLE.  131 

it  an  honor  to  be  received  into  the  fainih'arity  of  so  great  a 
poet."  But  the  titled  paid  a  still  higher,  though  perhaps  un- 
designed compliment,  to  the  untitled  author,  by  making  his 
own  poetry  the  very  echo  of  his.  Among  the  English  literati 
of  the  last  century,  there  is  no  other  writer  of  equal  general 
ability,  so  decidedly,  I  had  almost  said  so  servilely,  of  the 
school  of  Pope  as  Lyttelton.  The  little  crooked  man,  during 
the  last  thirteen  years  of  his  life,  was  a  frequent  visiter  at 
Hagley  ;  and  it  is  still  a  tradition  in  the  neighborhood,  that  in 
the  hollow  in  which  his  urn  has  been  erected  he  particularly 
delighted.  He  forgot  Cibber,  Sporus,  and  Lord  Fanny;  flung 
up  with  much  glee  his  poor  shapeless  legs,  thickened  by  three 
pairs  of  stockings  apiece,  and  far  from  thick,  after  all;  and 
called  the  place  his  "  own  ground."  It  certainly  does  no  dis- 
credit to  the  taste  that  originated  the  gorgeous  though  some- 
what indistinct  descriptions  of  "  Windsor  Forest."  There  are 
nob.e  oaks  on  every  side,  —  some  in  their  vigorous  middle-age, 
invested  with  that  "  rough  grandeur  of  bark,  and  wide  protec- 
tion of  bough,"  which  Shenstone  so  admired,  —  some  far  gone 
in  years,  mossy  and  time-shattered,  with  white  skeleton 
branches  atop,  and  fantastic  scraggy  roots  projecting,  snake- 
like, from  the  broken  ground  below.  An  irregular  open  space- 
in  front  permits  the  eye  to  range  over  a  prospect  beautiful 
though  not  extensive ;  a  small  clump  of  trees  rises  so  near  the 
urn,  that,  when  the  breeze  blows,  the  slim  branch-tips  lash  it 
as  if  in  sport;  while  a  clear  and  copious  spring  comes  bubbling 
out  at  its  base. 

I  passed  somewhat  hurriedly  through  glens  and  glades, — 
over  rising  knolls  and  wooded  slopes,  —  saw  statues  and  obe- 
lisks, temples  and  hermitages,  —  and  lingered  a  while,  ere  1 
again  descended  to  the  lawn,  on  the  top  of  an  eminence  which 
commands  one  of  the  richest  prospects  I  had  yet  seen.     Th<» 


l'{2  FlllbT    IMPRESSIOXS    OF 

landscape  from  this  point,  —  by  far  too  fine  to  have  escaped 
the  eye  of  Thomson,  —  is  described  in  the  "  Seasons  ;"  and  the 
hill  which  overlooks  it  represented  as  terminating  one  of  the 
walks  of  Lyttelton  and  his  lady, —  that  Lucy  Lady  Lyttleton 
whose  early  death  formed,  but  a  few  years  after,  the  subject 
of  the  monody  so  well  known  and  so  much  admired  in  the 
days  of  our  great-grandmothers  :  — 

"  The  beauteous  bride, 
To  whose  fair  memory  flowed  the  tenderest  tear 
That  ever  trembled  o'er  the  female  bier." 

It  is  not  in  every  nobleman's  park  one  can  have  the  opportunity 
of  comparing  such  a  picture  as  that  in  the  "  Seasons  "  with 
such  an  original.  I  quote,  with  the  description,  the  prelimi- 
nary lines,  so  vividly  suggestive  of  the  short-lived  happiness 
of  Lyttelton  :  — 

"  Perhaps  thy  loved  Lucinda  shares  thy  walk. 
With  soul  to  thine  attuned.     Then  Nature  all 
Wears  to  the  lover's  eye  a  look  of  love  ; 
And  all  the  tumult  of  a  guilty  world. 
Tossed  by  the  generous  passions,  sinks  away  ; 
The  tender  heart  is  animated  peace  ; 
And,  as  it  pours  its  copious  treasures  forth 
In  various  converse,  softening  every  theme. 
You,  frequent  pausing,  turn,  and  from  her  eyes, — 
Where  meekened  sense,  and  amiable  grace. 
And  lively  sweetness  dwell,  —  enraptured  drink 
That  nameless  spirit  of  ethereal  joy,  — 
Unutterable  happiness  !  —  which  love 
Alone  bestowo,  and  on  a  favored  few. 
Meantime  you  gain  the  height  from  whose  fixir  brow 
The  bursting  prospect  spreads  immense  around, 
And,  snatched  o'er  hill  and  dale,  and  wood  and  lawn. 
And  verdant  field,  and  darkening  heath  between, 
And  villages  embosomed  soft  in  trees. 
And  spiry  towns  by  surging  columns  marked 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  133 

Of  household  smoke,  your  eye  excursive  roau.8. 

Wide  stretching  from  the  Hull,  in  whose  kird  haunt 

The  Hosnitattle  Genius  lingers  still, 

To  where  the  broken  landscape,  by  degrees 

Ascending,  roughens  into  rigid  hills. 

O'er  which  the  Cambrian  mountains,  like  far  clotids 

That  skirt  the  blue  horizon,  dusky  rise." 

As  I  called  up  the  passage  on  the  spot  where,  as  a  yet 
unformed  conception,  it  had  first  arisen  in  the  mind  of  th«? 
writer,  I  felt  the  full  force  of  the  contrast  presented  by  the  two 
pictures  which  it  exhibits,  —  the  picture  of  a  high  but  evari- 
escent  human  happiness,  whose  sun  had  set  in  the  grave  nearly 
&  century  ago;  and  the  picture  of  the  enduring  landscape, 
unaltered  in  a  single  feature  since  Lyttelton  and  his  lady  had 
last  gazed  on  it  from  the  hill-top.  "  Alas ! "  exclaimed  the 
contemplative  Mirza,  "  man  is  but  a  shadow,  and  life  a  dream." 
A  natural  enough  reflection,  surely,  —  greatly  more  so,  I  am 
afraid,  than  the  solace  sought  by  the  poet  Beattie  under  its 
depressing  influence,  in  a  resembling  evanescence  and  insta- 
bility in  all  nature  and  in  all  history. 

"  Art,  empire,  earth  itself,  to  change  are  doomed  : 
Earthquakes  have  raised  to  heaven  the  humble  vale, 
And  gulfs  the  mountain's  mighty  mass  entombed. 
And  where  the  Atlantic  rolls,  wide  continents  have  bloomed." 

All  very  true,  —  none  the  less  so,  certainly,  from  the  circum- 
stance of  its  being  truth  in  advance  of  the  age  in  wh  ch  the 
poet  wrote  ;  but  it  is  equally  and  still  more  emphatically  true, 
that  the  instability  of  a  mountain  or  continent  is  a  thing  to  be 
contrasted,  not  compared,  with  the  instability  of  the  light  cloud? 
that,  when  the  winds  are  up,  float  over  it.  and  fling  athwart 
tiie  landscape  their  breadth  of  fitful  shadow.  And,  alas'  what 
is  human  life?  "even  a  vapor,  that  appeareth  for  a  little  t'me, 
12 


134  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

and  then  vanisheth  away."  There  need  be  no  lack  of  meraeii' 
toes  to  remind  one,  as  I  was  this  day  reminded  by  the  passage 
in  Thomson,  what  a  transitory  shadow  man  is,  compared  with 
the  old  earth  which  he  inhabits,  and  how  fleeting  his  pleasures, 
contrasted  with  the  stable  features  of  the  scenes  amid  which, 
for  a  few  brief  seasons,  he  enjoys  them. 

The  landscape  from  the  hill-top  could  not  have  been  seen  to 
greater  advantage,  had  1  waited  for  months  to  pick  out  their 
best  day.  The  far  Welsh  mountains,  though  lessened  in  the 
distance  to  a  mere  azure  ripple,  that  but  barely  roughened  the 
line  of  the  horizon,  were  as  distinctly  defined  in  the  clear 
atmosphere  as  the  green  luxuriant  leafage  in  the  foreground, 
which  harmonized  so  exquisitely  with  their  blue.  The  line 
extended  from  far  beyond  the  Shropshire  Wrekin  on  the  right, 
to  far  beyond  the  Worcestershire  Malverns  on  the  left.  Im- 
mediately at  the  foot  of  the  eminence  stands  the  mansion-house 
of  Hagley,  —  the  "  Hall"  where  the  "  hospitable  genius  lingers 
still ;  "  —  a  large,  solid-looking,  but  somewhat  sombre  edifice, 
built  of  the  New  Red  Sandstone  on  which  it  rests,  and  which 
too  much  reminds  one,  from  its  peculiar  tint,  of  the  prevailing 
red  brick  of  the  district.  There  was  a  gay  party  of  cricket- 
players  on  the  lawn.  In  front,  Lord  Lyttelton,  a  fine-looking 
young  man,  stripped  of  coat  and  waistcoat,  with  his  bright 
white  shirt  puffed  out  at  his  waistband,  was  sending  the  ball 
far  beyond  bound,  amid  an  eager  party,  consisting  chiefly,  as 
the  gardener  informed  me,  of  tenants  and  tenants'  sons ;  and 
the  cheering  sounds  of  shout  and  laughter  came  merrily  up  the 
hill.  Beyond  the  house  rises  a  noble  screen  of  wood,  composed 
of  some  of  the  tallest  and  finest  trees  in  England.  Here  and 
there  the  picturesque  cottages  of  the  neighboring  village  Deep 
through;  and  then,  on  and  away  to  the  far  horizon,  inere 
spreads  out  a  close-wrought  net-work  of  k  iced  fields,  that,  >•» 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  I3h 

it  lecedes  from  the  eye,  seems  to  close  its  meshes,  as  if  drawn 
awry  by  the  hand,  till  at  length  the  openings  can  be  no  longer 
seen,  and  the  hedge-rows  lie  piled  on  each  other  in  one  bosky 
mass.  The  geologic  framework  of  the  scene  is  various,  and 
each  distinct  portion  bears  its  own  marked  characteristics.  In 
the  foreground  we  have  the  undulating  trap,  so  suited  to  remind 
one,  by  the  picturesque  abruptnesses  of  its  outlines,  of  those 
somewhat  fantastic  backgrounds  one  sees  in  the  old  prints 
which  illustrate,  in  our  early  English  translations,  the  pastorals 
of  Virgil  and  Theocritus.  Next  succeeds  an  extended  plane 
of  the  richly-cultivated  New  Red  Sandstone,  which,  occupying 
fully  two-thirds  of  the  entire  landscape,  forms  the  whole  of 
what  a  painter  would  term  its  middle  ground,  and  a  little  more. 
There  rises  over  this  plane,  in  the  distance,  a  ridgy  acclivity, 
much  fretted  by  inequalities,  composed  of  an  Old  Red  Sand- 
stone formation,  coherent  enough  to  have  resisted  those  denud- 
ing agencies  by  which  the  softer  deposits  have  been  Avom 
down ;  while  the  distant  sea  of  blue  hills,  that  S(  ems  as  if 
toppling  over  it,  has  been  scooped  out  of  the  Siluiian  forma- 
tions, Upper  and  Lower,  and  demonstrates,  in  its  commanding 
altitude  and  bold  wavy  outline,  the  still  greater  solidity  of  the 
materials  which  compose  it. 

The  entire  prospect,  —  one  of  the  finest  in  England,  and 
eminently  characteristic  of  what  is  best  in  English  >''env?ry, — 
enabled  me  to  understand  what  I  had  used  to  deem  a  peculi- 
arity, —  in  some  measure  a  defect,  —  in  the  landscapes  of  the 
poet  Thomson.  It  must  have  often  struck  the  Scotch  reader, 
that  in  dealing  with  very  extended  prospects,  he  rather  enumer- 
ates than  describes.  His  pictures  are  often  mere  catalogues. 
in  which  single  words  stand  for  classes  of  objects,  and  in  wliich 
the  entire  poetry  seems  to  consist  in  an  overmastering  sense  of 
vast  poctent,  occupied  by  amazing  multiplicity.     I  cannot  better 


1 36  F  RST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

illustrate  my  meaning  than  by  his  introductory  desciiption  to 
thfc  "  Panegyric  on  Great  Britain  "  :  — 

*•  Heavens  !  what  a  goodly  prospect  spreads  around, 
Of  hills,  and  dales,  and  woods,  and  lawns,  and  spires. 
And  glittering  towns,  and  gilded  streams,  till  all 
The  stretching  landscape  into  smoke  decays  !  " 

No^,  the  prospect  from  the  hill  at  Hagley  furnished  me  with 
the  true  explanation  of  this  enumerative  style.  Measured 
along  the  horizon,  it  must,  on  the  lowest  estimate,  be  at  least 
fifty  miles  in  longitudinal  extent ;  measured  laterally,  from  the 
spectator  forwards,  at  least  twenty.  Some  of  the  Welsh  moun- 
tains which  it  includes  are  nearly  thrice  that  distance  ;  but  then 
they  are  mere  remote  peaks,  and  the  area  at  their  bases  njt 
included  in  the  prospect.  The  real  area,  however,  must  rather 
exceed  than  fall  short  of  a  thousand  square  miles  ;  the  fields 
into  which  it  is  laid  out  are  small,  scarcely  averaging  a  square 
furlong  in  superficies ;  so  that  each  square  mile  must  contain 
about  forty,  and  the  entire  landscape,  —  for  all  is  fertility,  — 
about  forty  thousand.  With  these  there  are  commixed  innu- 
merable cottages,  manor-houses,  villages,  towns.  Here  the 
surface  is  dimpled  by  unreckoned  hollows  ;  there  fretted  by 
uncounted  mounds ;  all  is  amazing,  overpowering  multiplicity, 
—  a  multiplicity  which  neither  the  pen  nor  the  pencil  can 
'jdequately  express  ;  and  so  description,  in  even  the  hands  of  a 
master,  sinks  into  mere  enumeration.  The  picture  becomes  a 
catalogue;  and  all  that  genius  can  accomplish  in  the  circum- 
stances is  just  to  do  with  its  catalogue  what  Homer  did  with 
his, —  dip  it  in  poetry.  I  found,  however,  that  the  innumerable 
details  of  the  prospect,  and  its  want  of  strong  leading  features, 
served  to  dissipate  and  distract  the  mind,  and  to  associate  with 
\he  vast  whole  an  idea  of  littleness   somewhat  in  the  way  that 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  137 

the  minute  hieroglyphics  on  an  Egyptian  obelisk  serve  to  divert 
attention  from  the  greatness  of  the  general  mass,  or  the  nioe 
integrity  of  its  proportions ;  and  I  would  have  perhaps  attributed 
the  feeling  to  my  Scotch  training,  had  I  not  remembered  that 
Addison,  whose  early  prejudices  must  have  been  of  an  opposite 
cast,  -epresents  it  as  thoroughly  natural.  Our  ideas  of  the 
great  in  nature  he  describes  as  derived  from  vastly-extended, 
not  richly-occupied,  prospects.  "Such,"  he  says,  "are  the 
prospects  of  an  open  champaign  country,  a  vast  uncultivated 
desert  of  huge  heaps  of  mountains,  high  rocks,  and  precipices, 
or  a  wide  expanse  of  water.  .  .  .  Such  extensive  and 
undetermined  prospects,"  he  adds,  "  are  as  pleasing  to  the 
fancy  as  the  speculations  of  eternity  or  infinitude  are  to  the 
understanding."  Shenstone,  too,  is  almost  equally  decided  on 
the  point ;  and  certainly  no  writer  has  better  claims  to  be  heard 
on  questions  of  this  kind  than  the  author  of  the  Leasowes. 
"Grandeur  and  beauty,"  he  remarks,  "are  so  very  opposite,  that 
you  often  diminish  the  one  as  you  increase  the  other.  Large, 
unvariegated,  simple  objects  have  always  the  best  pretensions 
to  sublimity :  a  large  mountain,  whose  sides  are  unvaried  by 
art,  is  grander  than  one  with  infinite  variety.  Suppose  it 
checkered  with  different-colored  clumps  of  wood,  scars  of  rock, 
chalk-quarries,  villages,  and  farm-houses, —  you  will  perhaps 
have  a  more  beautiful  scene,  but  much  less  grand,  than  it  was 
before.  The  hedge-row  apple-trees  in  Herefordshire  afford  a 
lovely  scenery  at  the  time  they  are  in  blossom ;  but  the  pros- 
pect would  be  really  grander  did  it  consist  of  simple  foliage. 
For  the  same  reason,  a  large  oak  or  beech  in  autunm  is  grander 
than  the  same  in  spring.  The  sprightly  green  is  then  obfuS' 
i-sted  ' 

12* 


T38  FIRST    tMPRESSIONS    OF 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Uagle^  Parish  Church.  —  The  Sepulchral  Marbles  of  the  Lytteltous. — 
Epitaph  on  t  e  Lady  Lucy.  —  The  Phrenological  Doctrine  of  Hereditary 
Transmissio- ;  unsupported  by  History,  save  in  a  way  in  which  His- 
tory can  be  made  to  support  anything;.  -  -  Thomas  Lord  Lyttelton  ;  hia 
Moral  Chara;ter  a  strange  Contrast  to  thii  of  his  Father.  — The  Elder 
Lyttelton  ;  his  Death-bed.  —  Aberrations  of  the  Younger  Lord.  — 
Strange  Ghost  Story  ;  Curious  Modes  of  accounting  for  it.  —  Return  to 
Stourbridge.  —  Late  Drive.  —  Hales  Owen. 

The  parish  church  of  Hagley,  an  antique  Gothic  building  of 
small  size,  much  hidden  in  wood,  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  mansion-house.  It  was 
erected  in  the  remote  past,  long  ere  the  surrounding  pleasure- 
grounds  had  any  existence ;  but  it  has  now  come  to  be  as 
thoroughly  enclosed  in  them  as  the  urns  and  obelisks  of  the 
rising  ground  above,  and  forms  as  picturesque  an  object  as  any 
urn  or  obelisk  among  them  all.  There  is,  however,  a  vast  dif- 
ference between  jest  and  earnest;  and  the  bona  fide  tomb-stones 
of  the  building  inscribed  with  names  of  the  dead,  and  its  dark 
M/alls  and  pointed  roof  reared  with  direct  reference  to  a  life  to 
which  the  present  is  but  the  brief  vestibule,  do  not  quite  har- 
monize with  temples  of  Theseus  and  the  Muses,  or  political 
columns  erected  in  honor  of  forgotten  Princes  of  Wales,  who 
quarrelled  with  their  fathers,  and  were  cherished,  in  conse- 
quence, by  the  Opposition.  As  I  came  upon  it  unawares,  and 
•jaw  it  emerge  from  its  dense  thicket  of  trees,  I  felt  as  if,  at  an 
Egyptian  feast,  I  had  unwittingly  brushed  otf  the  veil  from  the 
4dmonit  ry  skeloton.     The  door  lay  open, —  a  few  workmen 


ENG   IND    AND    US    PEOPLE.  139 

were  er  gaged  in  paving  a  portion  of  the  floor,  and  repairing 
Rome  breaches  in  the  vault ;  and  as  I  entered,  one  of  their 
numb-.;r  was  employed  in  shovelling,  some  five  or  six  feet  under 
the  pavement,  among  the  dust  of  the  Lytteltons.  The  trees 
outside  render  the  place  exceedingly  gloomy.  "  At  Hagley," 
the  too  celebrated  Thomas  Lord  Lyttelton  is  made  to  say,  in 
the  posthumous  volume  of  Letters  which  bears  his  name, 
"there  is  a  temple  of  Theseus,  commonly  called  by  the  gar- 
dener the  temple  of  Perseus,  which  stares  you  in  the  face 
wherever  you  go  ;  while  the  temple  of  God,  commonly  called 
by  the  gardener  the  parish  church,  is  so  industriously  hid  by 
trees  from  without,  that  the  pious  matron  can  hardly  read  her 
Prayer-book  within."*  A  brown  twilight  still  lingers  in  the 
place  :  the  lettered  marbles  along  the  walls  glisten  cold  and 
sad  in  the  gloom,  as  if  invested  by  the  dun  Cimmerian  atmo- 
sphere described  by  the  old  poet  as  brooding  over  the  land  of 
the  dead, — 

*'  the  dusky  coasts 
Peopled  by  shoals  of  visionary  ghosts." 

One  straggling  ray  of  sunshine,  colored  by  the  stained  glass  of 
a  narrow  windovv,  and  dimmed  yet  more  by  the  motty  dust- 
reek  raised  by  the  workmen,  fell  on  a  small  oblong  tablet,  the 
plainest  and  least  considerable  in  the  building,  and,  by  lighting 
up  its  inscription  of  five  short  lines,  gave  to  it,  by  one  of  those 

♦  This  volume,  though  it  contains  a  good  many  authentic  anecdotes  of 
the  younger  Lyttelton,  is  not  genuine.  It  was  written,  shortly  after  his 
Lordship's  death,  when  the  public  curiosity  regarding  him  was  much 
excited,  by  a  person  of  resembling  character, —  Duke  Combe,  a  man 
who,  after  dissipating  in  early  life  a  large  fortune,  lived  precariously  for 
many  years  as  a  clever  but  rather  unscrupulous  author  of  all  work,  and 
succeeded  in  producing,  when  turned  of  seventy,  a  well-known  volume. 
-  "  Dr.  Syntax's  Tour  io  Search  of  the  Picture8<iue. " 


140  FIRST    IBIPRESSIONS    OF 

fortuitoas  liappinesses  in  which  so  much  of  the  poelry  of  com- 
mon life  consists,  the  prominence  which  it  deserves.  It  briefly 
mtimates  that  it  was  placed  there,  in  its  naked  unadomedness 
"  at  the  particular  desire  of  the  Right  Honorable  George  Lyt- 
telton,  who  died  August  22,  1773,  aged  sixty-four."  The  poet 
had  willed,  like  another  titled  poet  of  less  unclouded  reputa- 
tion, that  his  "epitaph  should  be  his  name  alone."  Beside  the 
plain  slab,  —  so  near  that  they  almost  touch,  —  there  is  a  mar- 
ble of  great  elegance,  —  the  monument  of  the  Lady  Lucy.  It 
shows  that  she  predeceased  her  husband,  —  dying  at  the  early 
age  of  twenty-nine,  —  nearly  thirty  years.  Her  epitaph,  like 
the  monody,  must  be  familiar  to  most  of  my  readers  ;  but  for 
the  especial  benefit  of  the  class  whose  reading  may  have  lain 
rather  among  the  poets  of  the  present  than  of  the  past  cen- 
tu  "y,  I  give  it  as  transcribed  from  the  marble  :  — 

"  Made  to  engage  all  hearts  and  charm  all  eyes, 
Though  meek,  magnanimous,  —  though  witty,  wise  ; 
Polite  as  she  in  courts  had  ever  been, 
Yet  good  as  she  the  world  had  never  seen  ; 
The  noble  fire  of  an  exalted  mind, 
With  gentle  female  tenderness  combined  : 
Her  speech  was  the  melodious  voice  of  love. 
Her  song  the  warbling  of  the  vernal  grove  ; 
Her  eloquence  was  sweeter  than  her  song. 
Soft  as  her  heart,  and  as  her  reason  strong  : 
Her  form  each  beauty  of  the  mind  expressed  ; 
Her  mind  was  virtue  by  the  graces  dressed." 

England,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  saw  few  better  men  oi 
better  women  than  Lord  Lyttelton  and  his  lady  ;  and  it  does 
seem  a  curious  enough  fact,  that  their  only  son,  a  boy  of  many 
hope?  and  many  advantages,  and  who  possessed  quick  parts 
ani  a  vigorous  intellect,  should  have  proved,  notwithstanding, 
«ne  of  *he  most  flagitious  perwnages  of  his  age      The  first 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  141 

Lord  Lj  t(  >lton  was  not  more  conspicuous  for  his  genius  and 
his  virtu 3S,  than  the  second  Lord  Lyttelton  for  his  talents  and 
his  vices. 

There  are  many  who,  though  they  do  not  subscribe  to  the 
creed  of  the  phrenologist,  are  yet  unconsciously  influenced  by 
Its  doctrines  ;  and  never,  perhaps,  was  the  phrenological  belief 
more  general  than  now,  that  the  human  race,,  like  some  of 
the  inferior  races,  is  greatly  dependent,  for  the  development  of 
what  is  best  in  it,  on  what  I  shall  venture  to  term  purity  of 
breed.  It  has  become  a  sort  of  axiom,  that  well-dispositioned 
intellectual  parents  produce  a  well-dispositioned  intellectual 
offspring;  and  of  course,  as  human  history  is  various  enough, 
when  partiallv  culled,  to  furnish  evidence  in  support  oi  any* 
thing,  there  have  been  instances  adduced  in  pioof  of  the  posi- 
tion, which  it  would  take  a  long  time  to  enumerate.  But  were 
exactly  the  opposite  belief  held,  the  same  various  history  would 
be  found  to  furnish  at  least  as  many  evidences  in  support  of  it 
as  of  the  other.  The  human  race,  so  far  at  least  as  the  mental 
and  the  moral  are  concerned,  comes  very  doubtfully,  if  at  all; 
under  the  law  of  the  inferior  natures.  David  Hume,  better 
acquainted  with  history  than  most  men,  gives  what  seems  to 
be  the  true  state  of  the  case.  "The  races  of  animals,"  he 
says,  "never  degenerate  when  carefully  attended  to;  and 
horses  in  particular  always  show  their  blood  in  their  shape, 
spirit,  and  swiftness  ;  but  a  coxcomb  may  beget  a  philosopher, 
as  a  man  of  virtue  may  leave  a  worthless  progeny."  It  is  not 
uninstructive  to  observe  how  strongly  the  philosophy  of  the 
remark  is  borne  out  by  the  facts  of  Hume's  own  Hisiory.  The 
mean,  pusillanimous,  foolish  John  was  the  son  of  the  wise, 
daunt.ess  Henry  the  Second,  and  the  brother  of  the  magnan- 
imous Richard  Cceur  de  Lion.  His  immediate  descendant  and 
tfuccessor,  marly  as  weak,  i'  ough  somewhat  more  honest  thau 


14x3  FIRST    nVtPRESSIONS    OF 

himself,  was  the  father  of  the  fearless,  po  itic,  unscrupulous 
Edward  the  First ;  and  he,  of  the  imbecile  Ed«ard  the  Sec- 
ond ;  and  he,  in  turn,  of  the  brave,  sagacious  Edward  the 
Third  ;  and  then  comes  one  of  those  cases  which  the  phrenol- 
ogist picks  out  from  the  general  mass,  and  threads  together,  as 
with  a  string :  the  heroic  Edward  the  Third  was  the  father  of 
the  heroic  Black  Prince.  And  thus  the  record  runs  on,  bear- 
ing from  beginning  to  end  the  same  character;  save  that  as 
common  men  are  vastly  less  rare,  as  the  words  imply,  than 
u'ltcommon  ones,  it  is  inevitable  that  instances  of  the  ordinary 
producing  the  ordinary  should  greatly  predominate  over  instan- 
ces of  an  opposite  cast.  We  see,  however,  a  brutal  Henry  the 
Eighth  succeeded  by  his  son,  a  just  and  gentle  Edward  the 
Sixth  ;  and  he  by  his  bigoted,  weak-minded  sister,  the  bloody 
Mary ;  and  she  by  his  other  sister,  the  shrewd,  politic  Eliza- 
beth. But  in  no  history  is  this  independence  of  man's  mental 
and  moral  nature  of  the  animal  laws  of  transmission  better 
shown  than  in  the  most  ancient  and  authentic  of  all.  Thr 
two  first  brothers  the  world  ever  saw,  —  children  of  the  same 
father  and  mother,  —  were  persons  of  diametrically  opposite 
characters  ;  a  similar  diversity  obtained  in  the  families  of 
Noah  and  of  Jacob  :  the  devout  Eli  was  the  father  of  profli- 
gate children  ;  and  Solomon,  the  wise  son  of  a  great  monarch, 
a  great  warrior,  and  a  great  author,  —  he  who,  according  to 
Cowley,  "from  best  of  poets  best  of  kings  did  grow,"  —  had 
much  unscrupulous  coxcombry  and  mediocre  commonplace 
among  his  brethren,  and  an  ill-advised  simpleton  for  his  son. 

The  story  of  the  younger  Lyttelton,  —  better  known  half  a 
century  ago  than  it  is  now,  —  has  not  a  few  curious  points 
about  it.  He  was  one  of  three  children,  two  of  them  girls 
apostrophized  by  the  beree  ved  poet  in  the  Monody  :  — 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  143 

••Sweet  babes,  who,  like  the  little  playful  fawns 
Were  wont  to  trip  along  these  verdant  lawns 

By  your  delighted  mother's  side. 

Who  now  your  infant  steps  shall  guide  ? 
Ah  !  where  is  now  the  hand  whose  tender  care 
To  every  virtue  would  have  formed  your  youth. 
And  strewed  with  flowers  the  thorny  ways  of  truta 

0,  loss  beyond  repair  ! 

0,  wretched  father,  left  alone 
To  weep  their  dire  misfortune  and  thy  own  ! 
How  shall  thy  weakened  mind,  oppressed  with  woe 

And  drooping  o'er  thy  Lucy's  grave, 
Perform  the  duties  that  you  doubly  owe. 

Now  she,  alas  !  is  gone. 
From  folly  and  from  vice  their  helpless  age  to  save  ?   ' 

Ope  of  the  two  female  children  died  in  infancy;  th2  othei 
u'ved  to  '-ontract  an  advantageous  and  happy  marriage  with  a 
very  amiable  nobleman,  and  to  soothe  the  dying  bee  of  her 
father.  The  boy  gave  early  promise  of  fine  parts  and  an 
•energetic  disposition.  He  learned  almost  in  childhood  to  ap- 
preciate Milton,  mastered  his  tasks  with  scarce  an  effort,  spoke 
and  wrote  with  fluent  elegance,  and  was  singularly  happy  in 
repartee.  It  was  early  seen,  however,  that  his  nature  was 
based  on  a  substratum  of  profound  selfishness,  and  that  an 
uneasy  vanity  rendered  him  intensely  jealous  of  all  in  imme- 
diate contact  with  him,  whose  claims  to  admiration  or  respect 
lie  regarded  as  overtopping  his  own.  All  of  whom  he  was 
jealous  it  was  his  disposition  to  dislike  and  oppose  :  nis  insane 
envy  made  war  upon  them  in  behalf  of  self;  and,  unfortu- 
nately, it  was  his  e.xcellent  father,  —  a  man  possessed  of  one 
of  the  highest  and  most  unsullied  reputations  of  the  day, — 
whom  he  regarded  as  most  his  rival.  Had  the  first  Lord  Lyt- 
telton  been  a  worse  man,  the  second  Lord  would  possibly  have 
been  a  better  one;  for  in  the  nioval  and  the  religious,  —  in  all 


144  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

that  related  to  the  conduct  of  life  and  the  government  of  the 
passions,  —  he  seemed  to  regard  his  father  as  a  sort  of  reverse 
standard  by  which  to  regulate  himself  on  a  principle  of  contra- 
riety. The  elder  Lord  had  produced  a  treatise  on  the  "  Con- 
version of  St.  Paul,"  which  continues  to  hold  a  prominent 
place  among  our  works  of  evidence,  and  to  which,  says  John- 
son, '•'  infidelity  has  never  been  able  to  fabricate  a  specious 
answer."  It  was  answered,  however,  after  a  sort,  by  a  scepti 
cal  foreigner,  Claude  Anet,  whose  work  the  younger  Lyttelton 
made  it  his  business  diligently  to  study,  and  which,  as  a  piece 
of  composition  and  argument,  he  professed  greatly  to  prefer  t'' 
his  father's.  The  elder  Lyttelton  had  written  verses  which 
gave  him  a  place  among  the  British  poets,  and  which  contain, 
as  he  himself  has  characterized  those  of  Thomson, — 

*'  Not  one  immoral,  one  corrupted  thought,  — 
One  line  which,  dying,  he  could  wish  to  blot." 

The  younger  Lyttelton  wrote  verses  also  ;  but  his,  though  not 
quite  without  merit,  had  to  be  banished  society,  like  a  leper 
freckled  with  infection,  and  they  have  since  perished  apart. 
The  elder  Lyttelton  wrote  Dialogues  of  the  Dead  ;  so  did  the 
younger ;  but  his  dialogues  were  too  blasphemously  profane  to 
be  given,  in  a  not  very  zealous  age,  to  the  public  ;  and  we  can 
but  predict  their  character  from  their  names.  The  speakers  in 
one  were,  "  King  David  and  Csesar  Borgia  ;"  and  in  another, 
"  Socrates  and  Jesus  Christ."  He  gave  a  loose  to  his  pas- 
sions, till  not  a  woman  of  rep\itation  would  dare  be  seen  in 
his  company,  or  permit  him,  when  -be  waited  on  her,  —  heir- 
apparent  as  he  was  to  a  fine  estate  and  a  fair  title,  —  to  do 
more  than  leave  his  card.  His  father,  in  the  hope  of  awaken- 
ing him  to  higher  pursuits  and  a  nobler  ambition,  exerted  his 
.nflueuce  in  getting  him  returned  to  Parliament ;  and  he  made 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPIR.  145 

his  debut  in  a  brilliant  speech,  which  greatly  excited  the  hopea 
of  the  veteran  senator  and  his  Iriends,  and  was  complimented 
in  the  House  by  the  opposition,  as  fraught  with  the  "heredi- 
tary ability  of  the  Lytteltons.  He  subsequently  lost  his  seat, 
however,  in  consequence  of  some  irregularities  connected  with 
his  election,  and  returned  full  swing  to  the  gratification  of  the 
grosser  propensities  of  his  nature.  At  length,  when  shunned 
by  high  and  low,  even  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hagley,  he  was 
sent  to  hide  his  disgrace  in  an  obscure  retreat  on  the  continent. 
Meanwhile,  the  elder  Lyttelton  was  fast  breaking  up.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  nature  of  his  illness,  says  his  physician,  in 
an  interesting  account  of  his  last  moments,  to  alarm  the  fears 
of  his  friends ;  but  there  is  a  malady  of  the  affections  darkly 
hinted  at  in  the  narrative,  which  had  broken  his  rest  and  pros- 
trated his  strength,  and  which  medicine  could  not  reach.  It 
is  sad  enough  to  reflect  that  he  himself  had  been  one  of  the 
best  of  sons.  The  letter  is  still  extant  which  his  aged  father 
addressed  to  him,  on  the  publication  of  his  treatise  on  the 
"Conversion  of  St.  Paul."  After  some  judicious  commenda- 
tion of  the  cogency  of  the  arguments  and  the  excellence  of  the 
style,  the  old  man  goes  on  to  say,  "  May  the  King  of  kings, 
whose  glorious  cause  you  have  so  well  defended,  reward  your 
pious  labors,  and  grant  that  I  may  be  found  worthy,  through 
the  merits  of  Jesus  Christ,  to  be  an  eye-witness  of  that  happi- 
ness which  I  doubt  not  He  will  bountifully  bestow  upon  you. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  shall  never  cease  glorifying  God  for  having 
en  lowed  you  with  such  useful  talents,  and  giving  me  sq  eood  a 
son."  And  here  was  the  son,  in  whose  behalf  this  affecting 
prayer  had  been  breathed,  dying  broken-hearted,  a  victim  to 
paternal  solicitude  and  sorrow.  But  did  the  history  of  the 
species  furnish  us  with  no  such  instances,  we  would  posse.ss 
one  argument  fewer  than  in  the  existing  sta  e  of  things,  for  u 
13 


146  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

scheme  of  fiial  retribution,  through  whicK  every  uniFdrcssed 
wrong  shall  be  righted,  and  every  unsettled  account  receive  its 
appropriate  adjustment.  Junius,  a  writer  vho  never  praised 
willingly,  had  just  decided,  with  reference  to  his  Lordship's 
long  political  career,  that  "  the  integrity  and  judgment  of  Lord 
Lyttelton  were  unquestionable :"  but  the  subject  of  the  eulogy 
was  passing  to  the  tribunal  of  a  higher  judge.  His  hopes  of 
immortality  rested  solely  on  the  revealed  basis ;  and  yet  it  did 
yield  him  cause  of  gratitude  on  his  death-bed,  that  he  had 
been  enabled  throughout  the  probationary  course,  now  at  its 
close,  to  maintain  the  character  of  an  honest  man.  "  In  poli 
tics  and  in  public  life,"  he  said  to  his  physician,  shortly  ere  his 
departure,  "  I  have  made  public  good  the  rule  of  my  conduct. 
I  never  gave  counsels  which  I  did  not  at  the  time  think  the 
best.  I  have  seen  that  I  v/as  sometimes  in  the  wrong;  but  1 
did  not  err  designedly.  I  have  endeavored  in  private  life  to  do 
all  the  good  in  my  power;  and  never  for  a  moment  could 
indulge  malicious  or  unjust  designs  against  any  person  what- 
soever." And  so  the  first  Lord  Lyttelton  slept  with  his  fathers ; 
aid  Thomas,  the  second  Lord,  succeeded  him. 

He  soon  attained,  in  his  hereditary  seat  in  the  Upper  House, 
to  no  small  consequence  as  a  Parliamentary  speaker;  and  the 
ministry  of  the  day  —  the  same  that  lost  the  colonies  to  Brit- 
ain—  found  it  of  importance  he  should  be  conciliated.  His 
father  had  long  desired,  but  never  could  obtain,  the  govern- 
ment appointment  of  Chief  Justice  in  Eyre.  It  was  known 
there  wjs  nothing  to  be  gained  by  conferring  a  fovor  of  the 
kind  on  the  first  Lord  Lyttelton  :  he  would  have  voted  and 
spoken  after  exactly  the  same  manner,  whether  he  got  the 
appointment  or  no.  But  the  second  Lord  was  deemed  a  man 
of  a  different  stamp;  and  the  place  which  the  father,  after  his 
honest  services  of  forty  years,  had  longed  for  in  vain,  the  son. 


^ 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  147 

*n  the  infancy  of  his  peerage,  ere  he  had  performed  t  single 
service  of  any  kind,  received  unsolicited.  The  gift  had  ita 
effect;  and  many  of  his  after  votes  were  recorded  on  the  side 
of  ministers,  against  Chatham  and  the  Americans.  No  party, 
however,  could  calculate  very  surely  on  his  support :  he  was 
frequently  drawn  aside  by  some  eccentric  impulse  ;  and  fre- 
quently hit  right  and  left  in  mere  wantonness,  without  caring 
whether  the  stroke  fell  on  friend  or  foe.  There  were,  mean- 
while, sad  doings  at  Hagley.  In  "his  father's  decent  hall,"  to 
"mploy  the  language  of  Childe  Harold, 

"condemned  to  uses  vile. 
Now  Paphinn  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile." 

He  had  been  married  to  a  lady,  of  whom  nothing  worse  has 
ever  been  said  than  that  she  accepted  his  hand.  Her,  however, 
he  had  early  deserted.  But  the  road  he  had  taken,  with  all 
jts  downward  ease  and  breadth,  is  not  the  road  which  leads  to 
happiness;  and  enough  survives  of  his  private  history  to  show 
that  he  was  a  very  miserable  man. 

"  And  none  did  love  him  ;  though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gathered  revellers  from  far  and  near. 
He  knew  them  flatterers  of  the  festal  hour. 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer  ; 
Yea,  none  did  love  him, —  not  his  lemans  dear." 

He  seems  to  have  been  strongly  marked  by  the  peculiai 
heartlcssness  so  generally  found  to  cot  xist  with  the  gratuitous 
and  flashy  generosity  of  men  of  grossly  licentious  liv-es;  that 
petrifaction  of  feeling  to  which  Burns  and  Byron  —  both  of 
thorn  unfortunately  but  too  well  qualified  to  decide  on  the  sub- 
iect — so  pointedly  refer.  Bat  he  could  feel  remorse,  however 
incapable  of  pity,  —  and  remorse  heightened,  notwithstanding 


148  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

an  ostentatious  scepticism,  by  the  direst  terrors  of  superstitioa 
Among  the  females  who  had  been  the  objects  of  his  temporary 
attachment,  and  had  fallen  victims  to  it,  there  was  a  Mrs. 
Dawson,  whose  fortune,  with  her  honor  and  reputation,  had 
been  sacrificed  to  her  passion,  and  who,  on  being  deserted  by 
tiis  Lordship  for  another,  did  not  long  survive  :  she  died  broken- 
hearted, bankrupt  both  in  means  and  character.  But  though 
she  perished  without  friend,  she  was  yet  fully  avenged  on  the 
seducer.  Ever  after,  he  believed  himself  haunted  by  her  spec- 
tre. It  would  start  up  before  him  in  the  solitudes  of  Hagley 
at  noon-day,  —  at  night  it  flitted  round  his  pillow,  —  it  followed 
him  incessantly  during  his  rustication  on  the  continent,  —  and 
is  said  to  have  given  him  especial  disturbance  when  passing  a 
few  days  at  Lyons.  In  England,  when  residing  for  a  short 
time  with  a  brother  nobleman,  he  burst  at  midnight  into  the 
room  in  which  his  host  slept,  and  begged,  in  great  horror  of 
mind,  to  be  permitted  to  pass  the  night  beside  him :  in  his  own 
apartment,  he  said,  he  had  been  strangely  annoyed  by  an  un- 
accountable creaking  of  the  floor.  He  ultimately  deserted 
Hagley,  which  he  found  by  much  too  solitary,  and  in  too  close 
proximity  with  the  parish  burying-ground :  and  removed  to  a 
country-house  near  Epsom,  called  Pit  Place,  from  its  situation 
in  an  old  chalk-pit.  And  here,  six  years  after  the  death  of  his 
father,  the  vital  powers  suddenly  failed  him,  and  he  broke  down 
and  died  in  his  thirty-sixth  year.  There  were  circumstances 
connected  with  his  death  that  form  the  strangest  part  of  his 
story,  —  circumstances  which  powerfully  attracted  public  atten- 
tion at  the  time,  and  which,  as  they  tasked  too  severely  the 
belief  of  an  incredulous  age,,  have  been  very  variously  accounted 
for.  We  find  Dr.  Johnson,  whose  bias,  however,  did  not 
incline  him  to  the  incredulous  side,  thus  referring  to  them,  ir 
one  i'  the  con  ersations  recorded  by  Boswell      "  I  mentioned, 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  149 

says  the  chronicler,  "  Thomas  Lord  Lytfelton's  vision,  —  the 
prediction  of  the  time  of  his  death,  and  its  exact  fulfilment." 
Johnson.  —  "  It  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing  that  has  hap- 
pened in  my  day:  1  heard  it  with  my  own  ears  from  his  uncle. 
Lord  Westcote.  I  am  so  glad  to  iiave  evidence  of  the  spiritual 
world,  that  I  am  willing  to  believe  it."  Dr.  Adams.  —  "  You 
have  evidence  enough  ;  good  evidence,  which  needs  not  such 
support."     Johnson.  —  "I  like  to  have  more." 

This  celebrated  vision,  —  long  so  familiar  to  the  British  pub- 
lic, that  almost  all  the  writers  who  touch  on  it,  from  Boswell 
to  Sir  Walter  Scott  inclusive,  deal  by  the  derails  as  too  Vv'ell 
known  to  be  repeated,  —  is  now  getting  pretiy  much  out  of 
sight.  I  shall  present  the  particulars,  therefore,  as  I  have  been 
able  to  collect  them  from  the  somewhat  varying  authorities  of 
the  time.*  His  Lordship,  on  Thursday,  November  5th,  1779, 
had  made  the  usual  opening  address  to  the  Sovereign  the  occa- 
sion of  a  violent  attack  on  the  administration  ;  "but  this,"  says 
Walpole,  "  was,  notwithstanding  his  government  appointment, 
nothing  new  to  him  ;  he  was  apt  to  go  point-blank  into  all 
extremes,  without  any  parenthesis  or  decency,  nor  even  boggled 
at  contradicting  his  own  words."  In  the  evening  he  set  out 
for  his  house  at  Epsom,  carrying  with  him,  says  the  same  gos- 
siping authority,  "a  caravan  of  nymphs."     He  sat  up  rathe' 

*  Walpole,  Wraxall,  Warner,  and  tli"  Scots  Magazine,  Malone,  in 
one  of  the  notes  to  Boswell's  "  .Johnson,"  refers  the  reader  for  a  correct 
account  of  "  Lyttelton's  supposed  vision,"  to  "  Nash's  History'  of  Worces- 
tershire ;"  and  his  reference  has  been  reprinted,  without  alteration,  in 
the  elaborate  edition  of  Croker.  But  the  earlier  commentator  must  have 
been  misled  in  the  case  by  a  deceptive  memory  ;  and  the  latter,  by  tak 
ing  his  predecessor's  labors  too  mucli  on  trust.  Nash's  entire  notice  con 
sists  of  but  a  meagre  allusion  to  his  Lordship's  death,  wound  up  by  the 
remark,  that  there  were  circumstances  connected  with  it  well  suited  to 
"  engag'  ♦he  attention  of  believers  in  the  second  tight" 


150  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS   OF 

late  after  his  arrival;  and,  on  retiring-  to  bed,  was  suddenly 
awakened  from  brief  slumber  a  little  before  midnight,  by  what 
appeared  to  be  a  dove,  which,  after  fluttering  for  an  instant 
near  the  bed-curtains,  glided  towards  a  casement-window  in  the 
apartment,  where  it  seemed  to  flutter  for  an  instant  longer,  and 
then  vanished.  At  the  same  moment  his  eye  fell  upon  a  female 
figure  in  white,  standing  at  the  bed-foot,  jn  which  he  at  once 
recognized,  says  Warner,  "  the  spectre  of  the  unfortunate  lady 
that  had  haunted  him  so  long."  It  solemnly  warned  him  to 
prepare  for  death,  for  that  within  three  days  he  should  be 
called  to  his  final  account;  and,  having  delivered  its  message, 
immediately  disappeared.  In  the  morning  his  Lordship  seemed 
greatly  discomposed,  and  complained  of  a  violent  headache. 
"He  had  had  an  extraordinary  dream,"  he  said,  "suited,  did 
he  possess  even  a  particle  of  superstition,  to  make  a  deep 
impression  on  his  mind ;"  and  in  afterwards  communicating 
the  particulars  of  the  vision,  he  remarked,  rather,  however,  in 
joke  than  earnest,  that  the  warning  was  somewhat  of  the  short- 
est, and  that  really,  after  a  course  of  life  so  disorderly  as  his, 
three  days  formed  but  a  brief  period  for  preparation.  On  Sat- 
urday, he  began  to  recover  his  spirits;  and  told  a  lady  of  his 
acquaintance  at  Epsom,  that  as  it  was  now  the  third  and  last 
day,  he  would,  if  he  escaped  for  but  a  few  hours  longer,  fairly 
"jockey  the  ghost."  He  became  greatly  depressed,  however, 
as  the  evening  wore  on;  and  one  of  his  companions,  as  the 
critical  hour  of  midnight  approached,  set  forward  the  house- 
clock,  in  the  hope  of  dissipating  his  fears,  by  misleading  him 
mto  the  belief  that  he  had  entered  on  the  fourth  day,  and  was 
of  course  safe.  The  hour  of  twelve  accordingly  struck ;  the 
company,  who  had  sat  with  him  till  now,  broke  up  immedi- 
ately after,  laughing  at  the  prediction ;.  and  his  Lordsiiip 
retired  to  his  bed-room,  apparently  much  relieved.     His  val^t 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  151 

who  hat.  n  ixed  up  at  his  desire  a  dose  of  rhubarb,  followed 
him  a  few  minutes  after,  and  he  sat  up  in  bed,  in  apparent 
health,  to  take  the  medicine ;  but,  being  in  want  of  a  tea- 
spoon, he  despatched  the  servant,  with  an  expression  of  impa- 
tience, to  bring  him  one.  The  man  was  scarce  a  minute  ab- 
sent. When  he  returned,  however,  his  master  was  a  corpse. 
He  had  fallen  backwards  on  the  pillow,  and  bis  outstretched 
hand  still  grasped  his  watch,  which  exactly  indicated  the  fatal 
hour  of  twelve.  It  has  been  conjectured  that  his  dissolution 
might  have  been  an  effect  of  the  shock  he  received,  on  ascer- 
taining that  the  dreaded  hour  had  not  yet  gone  by:  at  all 
events,  explain  the  fact  as  we  may,  ere  the  fourth  day  had 
arrived,  Lyttelton  was  dead.  It  has  been  further  related,  as  a 
curious  coincidence,  that  on  the  night  of  his  decease,  one  of  his 
intimate  acquaintance  at  Dartford,  in  Kent,  dreamed  that  his 
Lordship  appeared  to  him,  and,  drawing  back  the  bed-curtains, 
said,  with  an  air  of  deep  melancholy,  "  My  dear  friend,  it  is  all 
over ;  you  see  me  for  the  last  time."* 

•  The  reader  maj'  be  curious  to  see  the  paragraph  in  which,  sixty-seven 
years  ago,  the  details  of  this  singular  incident  were  first  communicated  to 
the  British  public  through  the  various  periodicals  of  the  day.  I  quote 
from  the  Scots  Maguzine  for  December  1779  : — "On  Thui-sday  night, 
November  2.3th,  Lord  Lyttelton  sat  up  late,  after  the  vote  on  the  Address 
in  tiic  House  of  Lords.  He  complained  of  a  violent  headache  next  morn- 
ing, seemed  much  discomposed,  and  recited  a  very  striking  dream,  which, 
he  said,  would  have  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind  had  he  been 
possessed  of  even  the  least  particle  of  superstition.  He  had  started  up 
from  midnight  sleep,  on  perceiving  a  bird  fluttering  near  the  bed-cui*ains, 
which  vanished  suddenly,  when  a  female  spectre,  in  white  raiment,  pre- 
sented herself,  and  charged  him  to  depend  on  his  dissolution  within  three 
days.  He  lamented  jocosely  the  sliortncss  of  the  warning;  and  observed, 
it  was  a  short  time  for  preparation  after  so  disorderly  a  life.  On  the 
Saturday  morning,  he  found  himself  in  spirits;  and  when  at  Epsom,  told 

Mrs.  r (wife  of  the  Hon.  Mr.  F )  that  he  should  jockey  the  ghost 

\f  ho  escaped  a  few  hours,  for  it  was  the  third  and  last  day.     Hf  'vaa 


152  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

The  story  has  been  variously  accounted  for.  Some  have 
held,  as  we  learn  from  Sir  Waller  Scott  in  his  "  Demonology,'' 
that  his  Lordship,  weary  of  life,  and  fond  of  notoriety,  first 
invented  the  prediction,  with  its  accompanying  circumstances, 
and  then  destroyed  him.self  to  fulfil  it.  And  it  is  added,  in  a 
note  furnished  by  a  friend  of  Sir  Walter's,  that  the  whole  inci- 
dent has  been  much  exaggerated.  "  I  heard  Lord  Fortescue 
once  say,"  says  the  writer  of  the  note,  "  that  he  was  in  the 
house  with  Lord  Lyttelton  at  the  time  of  the  supposed  visita- 
tion, and  he  mentioned  the  following  circumstances  as  the  only 
foundation  for  the  extraordinary  superstructure  at  which  the 
world  has  wondered  :  —  'A  woman  of  the  party  had  one  day 
lost  a  favorite  bird,  and  all  the  men  tried  to  recover  it  for  her. 
Soon  after,  on  assembling  at  breakfast,  Lord  Lyttelton  com- 
plained of  having  passed  a  very  bad  night,  and  having  been 
worried  in  his  dreams  by  a  repetition  of  the  chase  of  the  lady's 
bird.  His  death. followed,  as  stated  in  the  story.'"  Certainly, 
had  this  been  all,  it  would  be  scarce  necessary  to  infer  that  his 
Lordship  destroyed  himself.  But  the  testimony  of  Lord  For- 
tescue does  not  amount  to  more  than  simply  that  at  first  Lord 
Lyttelton  told  but  a  part  of  his  dream  ;  while  the  other  evidence 
goes  to  show  that  he  subsequently  added  the  rest.  Nor  does 
the  theory  of  the  premeditated  suicide  seem  particularly  happy. 

eeized  ■with  convulsions  in  the  evening,  and  expired,  putting  off  his  clothes 
to  go  into  bed.  These  circura stances  are  not  only  verified  by  Charles 
Wal — y,  Esq.,  a  captain  in  the  royal  navy,  and  many  other  respectable 
characters,  witnesses  of  his  Lordship's  conversation  and  exit,  but  are 
remarkably  impressed  by  the  additional  circumstance  of  a  very  intimate 
friend  of  Lord  Lyttelton,  at  Dartford,  in  Kent,  dreaming  on  the  night  of 
this  evening  (Saturday,  November  27)  that  his  Lordsliip  had  appeared  to 
him  towards  daybreak,  and,  drawing  back  the  curtain,  said,  '  My  dear 
♦i-iend,  it  is  ail  over;  you  see  me  for  the  last  time,'-  -or  words  to  that 
«flfect." 


k 


ENGLAND     IND    ITS    PEOPI.K.  153 

»f  we  mist  indeed  hold  that  the  agency  of  the  unseen  world 
never  sensibly  mingles  with  that  of  the  seen  and  the  tangible 

"  To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee," 

we  may  at  least  deem  it  not  very  improbable  that  such  a  vision 
shouid  have  been  conjured  up  by  the  dreaming  fancy  of  an 
unhappy  libertine,  ill  at  ease  in  his  conscience,  sensible  of 
sinking  health,  much  addicted  to  superstitious  fears,  and  who, 
shortly  before,  had  been  led,  through  a  sudden  and  alarming 
mdisposition,  to  think  of  death.  Nor  does  it  seem  a  thing 
beyond  the  bounds  of  credibility  or  comcidence,  that  in  the 
course  of  the  three  following  days,  when  prostrated  by  his  ill- 
concealed  terrors,  he  should  have  experienced  a  second  and 
severer  attack  of  the  illness  from  which,  only  a  few  week's 
previous,  he  had  with  difficulty  recovered.* 

*  Certain  it  is,  —  and  the  circumstance  is  a  curious  one,  —  tliere  were 
no  firmer  believers  in  tlie  truth  of  the  story  than  Lyttelton's  own  nearer 
relatives.  It  was  his  uncle,  a  man  of  strong  sense,  to  whom  Johnson 
referred  as  his  authority,  and  on  whose  direct  evidence  he  built  so  much; 
and  we  are  told  by  Sir  Nathaniel  Wraxall,  that  the  Lady  Dowager  Lyttel- 
ton,  —  the  younger  Lord's  stepmother,  whom,  however,  the  knight  repre- 
sents as  "  a  woman  of  a  very  lively  imagination," —  was  equally  a  believer. 
"I  have  frequently  scon,  at  her  house  in  Portugal  Street,  Grosvenor 
Square,"  says  Sir  Nathaniel,  "a  painting  which  she  herself  executed  in 
1780,  expressly  to  commemorate  the  event.  It  hung  in  a  conspicuous 
part  of  Iier  drawing-room.  There  the  dove  appears  at  the  window;  while 
a  female  figure,  habited  in  white,  stands  at  the  bed-foot,  announcing  to 
Lord  Lyttelton  his  dissolution.  Every  part  of  the  picture  was  faithfully 
designed  after  the  description  given  her  by  his  Lordship's  valet,  to  whom 
his  master  related  all  the  circumstances."  "  About  four  years  after,  in 
the  year  1783,"  adds  the  knigiit,  "  when  dining  at  Pit  Place,  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  visit  Lord  Lyttelton's  bed-chamber,  where  the  casement-win- 
dow  at  which,  as  his  Lordship  asserted,  the  dove  appeared  to  flutter,  waa 
pointed  out  to  me."  The  reader  will  perhaps  remember  that  Bj'ron  refers 
to  the  apparition  of  the  bird  as  a  pi-ecedent  for  the  passage  in  the  "  Bride 
cf  Abydos"  in  which  he  introduces  the  spirit  of  Selira  as  pouring  out  ita 


154  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

I  returned  to  Stourbridge,  where  I  baited  to  get  some 
Pifreshment,  and  wait  the  coach  for  Hales  Owen,  in  an  old- 
''ashioned  inn,  with  its  overhanging  gable  of  mingled  beam  and 
brick  fronting  the  street,  and  its  some  six  or  seven  fooms  on 
the  ground-floor,  opening  in  succession  into  each  other  like  the 
rattles  of  a  snake's  tail.  Three  solid-looking  Englishmen,-  two 
of  them  farmers  evidently,  the  third  a  commercial  traveller,  had 
just  sat  down  to  a  late  dinner;  and,  on  the  recommendation  of 
the  hostess,  I  drew  in  a  chair  and  formed  one  of  the  party.  A 
fourth  Englishman,  much  a  coxcomb  apparently,  greatly  ex- 
cited, and  armed  with  a  whip,  was  pacing  the  floor  of  the  room 
in  which  we  sat ;  while  in  an  outer  room  of  somewhat  inferior 
pretensions,  there  was  another  Englishman,  also  armed  with  a 
whip,  and  also  pacing  the  floor;  and  the  two,  each  from  his 
own  apartment,  were  prosecuting  an  angry  and  noisy  dispute 
together.  The  outer-room  Englishman  was  a  groom,  —  the 
inner-room  Englishman  deemed  himself  a  gentleman.  They 
had  both  got  at  the  races  into  the  same  gig,  the  property  of  the 
innkeeper,  and  quarrelled  about  who  should  drive.  The  groom 
had  argued  his  claim  on  the  plea  that  he  was  the  better  driver 
of  the  two,  and  that  driving  along  a  crowded  race-ground  was 
difficult  and  dangerous :  the  coxcomb  had  insisted  on  driving, 
because  he  liked  to  drive,  and  because,  he  said,  he  did  n't  choose 
to  be  driven  in  such  a  public  place  by  a  groom.  The  groom 
retorted,  that  though  a  groom,  he  was  as  good  a  man  as  he 
was,  for  all  his  fine  coat,  —  perhaps  a  better  man ;  and  so  the 

sorrows,  in  the  form  of  a  nightingale,  over  the  tomb  of  Zuleika.  "  For  a 
belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  birds,"  says  the  poet,  "  we  need 
not  travel  to  the  east :  Lord  Lyttelton's  ghost  story,  and  many  other 
instances,  bring  this  superstition  nearer  home."  The  Lord  Westcote, 
Lord  Lyttelton's  uncle,  who  related  the  story  to  Johnson,  succeeded  to 
the  title  and  estate,  and  the  pre*^nt  Lord  Lytteltoa  is,  I  believe.  Lord 
Westcote's  grandson. 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  155 

controversy  went  on,  till  the  three  solid  Englishmen,  worried 
a<^  their  meal  by  the  incessant  noise,  interfered  in  behalf  of  the 
groom.  "Thou  bee'st  a  foolish  man,"  said  one  of  the  farmers 
to  the  coxcomb;  "  better  to  be  driven  by  a  groom  than  to  wran- 
gle with  a  groom." — "  Foolish  man !  "  iterated  the  other  farmer, 
"  thou's  would  have  broken  the  groom's  neck  and  thee's  own.'" 
— "  Ashamed,"  exclaimed  the  commercial  gentleman,  "to  l>e. 
di:ven  by  a  groom,  at  such  a  time  as  this,  —  the  groom  a  good 
driver  too,  and,  for  all  that  appears,  an  honest  man  !  I  don"t 
think  any  one  should  be  ashamed  to  be  driven  by  a  groom  ;  I 
know  I  would  n't." — "  The  first  un-English  thing  I  have  seen 
in  England,"  said  I :  "  I  thought  you  English  people  were 
above  littlenesses  of  that  kind." — "Thank  you,  gentlemen,  thank 
you,"  exclaimed  the  voice  from  the  other  room ;  "  I  was  sure  I 
was  right.  He  's  a  low  fellow :  I  would  box  him  for  sixpence." 
The  coxcomb  muttered  something  between  his  teeth,  and 
stalked  into  the  apartment  beyond  that  in  which  we  sat ;  the 
commercial  gentleman  thrust  his  tongue  into  his  cheek  as  he 
disappeared;  and  we  were  left  to  enjoy  our  pudding  in  peace. 
It  was  late  and  long  this  evening  ere  the  six  o'clock  coach 
started  for  Hales  Owen.  At  length,  a  little  after  eight,  when 
the  night  had  fairly  set  in,  and  crowds  on  crowds  had  come 
pouring  into  the  town  from  the  distant  race-ground,  away  it 
rumbled,  stuck  over  with  a  double  fare  of  passengers,  jammed 
on  before  and  behmd,  and  occupying  to  the  full  every  square 
foot  atop. 

Though  sorely  be-elbowed  and  be-kneed,  we  had  a  jovial 
ride.  England  was  merry  England  this  evening  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Stourbridge.  We  passed  cart,  and  wagon,  and 
gig,  parties  afoot  and  parties  on  horseback;  and  there  was  a 
free  interchange  of  gibe  and  joke,  hail  and  halloo.  There 
Beamed  to  bo  more  hearty  mirth  and  less  intemperance  afloal 


156  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

than  I  have  seen  in  Scotland  on  such  occasions;  but  the  w.icle 
appeared  just  foolish  enough  notwithstanding ;  and  a  knot  of 
low  blackguard  gamblers,  who  were  stuck  together  on  the  coach 
front,  and  conversing  with  desperate  profanity  on  who  they  dia 
ond  by  whom  they  were  done,  showed  me  that  to  the  foolish 
there  was  added  not  a  little  of  the  bad.  The  Hales  Owen  road 
runs  for  the  greater  part  of  the  way  within  the  southern  edge 
of  the  Dudley  coal-field,  and,  lying  high,  commands  a  down- 
ward view  of  its  multitudinous  workings  for  many  miles.  It 
presented  from  the  coach-top  this  evening  a  greatly  more  mag- 
nificent prospect  than  by  day.  The  dark  space,  —  a  nether 
fimnament,  —  for  its  gray  wasteful  desolation  had  disappeared 
with  the  vanished  daylight,  —  was  spangled  bright  by  innumer- 
able furnaces,  twinkling  and  star-like  m  the  distance,  but  flaring 
like  comets  in  the  foreground.  We  could  hear  the  roaring  of 
the  nearer  fires;  here  a  tall  chimney  or  massy  engine  peered 
doubtfully  out,  in  dusky  umber,  from  amid  the  blackness ; 
while  the  heavens  above  ^glowed  in  the  reflected  light,  a  blood- 
red.  It  was  near  ten  o'clock  ere  I  reached  the  inn  at  Hales 
Owen ;  and  the  room  into  which  I  was  shovn  received,  for 
more  than  an  hour  after,  continual  relays  of  guests  from  the 
races,  who  turned  in  for  a  few  minutes  to  drink  gin  and  water, 
and  then  took  the  road  agSln.  They  were  full  of  their  back- 
ings and  their  bets,  find  animated  by  a  life-and-death- eagerness 
to  demonstrate  hov.^  Sir  John's  gelding  had  distanced  niy  I  ord's 
•nare. 


F.NaLANI)    AMI    JTS    FEOPLE.  157 


CHAPTER    VIH. 

4.bbu'.sford  and  the  Leasowes. — The  one  place  natun  l.y  sugg.istive  of 
tht.  other.  —  Shenstone.  —  The  Leasowes  his  most  eJaborate  Composi- 
tion, -The  English  Squire  and  his  Mill.  — Hales  Owen  Abbey  ;  inter- 
esting, as  the  Subject  of  one  of  Shenstone's  larger  Poems.  —  The  old 
anti-Popish  Feeling  of  England  well  exemplified  by  the  Fact.  —  Its 
Origin  and  History.  —  Decline.  —  Infidelity  naturally  favorable  to  the 
Resuscitation  and  Reproduction  of  Popery.  —  The  two  Naileresses. — 
Cecilia  and  Delia.  —  Skeleton  Description  of  the  Leasowes.  —  Poetic 
filling  up.  —  The  Spinster.  —  The  Fountain. 

I  HAD  come  to  Hales  Owen  to  visit  the  Leasowes,  the  patri- 
mony which  poor  Shenstone  converted  into  an  exquisite  poem, 
written  on  the  green  face  of  nature,  with  groves  and  thickets, 
cascades  and  lakes,  urns,  teinples,  and  hermitages,  for  the  char- 
acters. In  passing  southwards,  I  had  seen  from  the  coach-top 
the  woods  of  Abbotsford,  with  the  turrets  of  the  mansion-house 
peeping  over;  and  the  idea  of  the  trim-kept  desolation  of  the 
place  suggested  to  me  that  of  the  paradise  which  the  poet  of 
Hales  Owen  had,  like  Sir  Walter,  ruined  himself  to  produce, 
that  it,  too,  might  become  a  melancholy  desert.  Nor  was  the 
association  which  linked  Abbotsford  to  the  Leasowes  by  any 
means  arbitrary  :  the  one  place  may  be  regarded  as  having  in 
some  degree  arisen  out  of  the  other.  "  It  had  been,"  says  Sir 
Walter,  in  one  of  his  prefaces,  "an  early  wish  of  mine  to  con- 
nect myself  with  my  mother  earth,  and  prosecute  those  experi- 
ments by  which  a  species  of  creative  power  is  exercised  over 
the  face  of  nature.  I  can  trace,  even  to  childhood,  a  pleasure 
derived  from  Dodsley's  account  of  Shenstone's  Leasowes;  and 

I  envied  ihe  poet  much  more  for  the  pleasure  of  accomplisliing 
14 


158  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

the  objects  detailed  in  his  friend's  sketch  of  his  grounds,  tr  n:  lot 
the  possession  of  pipe,  crook,  flock,  and  Phillis  to  boot."    Alas' 

"  Prudence  sings  to  thoughtless  bards  in  vain." 

In  contemplating'  the  course  of  Shenstone,  Sir  Walter  could 
see  but  the  pleasures  of  the  voyage,  without  taking  note  of  the 
shipwreck  in  which  it  terminated;  and  so,  in  pursuing  identi 
cally  the  same  track,  he  struck  on  identically  the  same  shoal. 

I  had  been  intimate  from  a  very  immature  period  with  the 
writings  of  Shenstone.  There  are  poets  that  require  to  be 
known  early  in  life,  if  one  would  know  them  at  all  to  advan- 
tage. They  give  real  pleasure,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  which  the 
mind  outgrows  ;  they  belong  to  the  "comfit  and  confectionary- 
plum"  class  ;  and  Shenstone  is  decidedly  one  of  the  number. 
No  mind  ever  outgrew  the  "  Task,"  or  the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  or 
the  dramas  of  Shakspeare,  or  the  poems  of  Burns  :  they  please 
in  early  youth  ;  and,  like  the  nature  which  they  embody  and 
portray,  they  continue  to  please  in  age.  But  the  Langhorns, 
Wartons,  Kirke  Whites,  Shelleys,  Keatses, — shall  I  venture 
to  say  it?  —  Byrons,  are  flowers  of  the  spring,  and  bear  to  the 
sobered  eye,  if  one  misses  acquainting  one's  self  with  them  at 
the  proper  season,  very  much  the  aspect  of  those  herbarium 
specimens  of  the  botanist,  which  we  may  examine  as  matters 
of  curiosity,  but  scarce  contemplate,  —  as  we  do  the  fresh  un- 
cropped  flowers,  with  all  their  exquisite  tints  and  .delicious  odors 
vital  within  them,  —  as  the  objects  of  an  afTectionate  regard. 
Shenstone  was  one  of  the  ten  or  twelve  English  poets  whose 
works  I  had  the  happiness  of  possessing  when  a  boy,  and 
which,  during  some  eight  or  ten  years  of  my  life,  —  foi  books 
at  the  time  formed  luxuries  of  difficult  procurement,  anr.  I  had 
to  make  the  most  of  those  I  had,  —  I  used  to  read  over  ard  over 
at  the  rate  of  about  twice  in  the  twelvemonth.  And  every  time 
I  read  the  poems,  I  was  sure  also  to  read  Dodsley's  appendo.^ 


h 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  159 

desci'ption  of  the  Leasowes.  I  could  never  form  from  it  any 
idea  of  the  place  as  a  whole  :  the  imagery  seemed  bioken  up 
into  detached  slips,  like  the  imagery  of  a  magic  lantern  ;  but 
then  nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  insulated  slips  ;  and  my 
mind  was  filled  with  gorgeous  pictures,  all  fresh  and  bright,  of 
"sloping  groves,"  "tufted  knolls,"  "wooded  valleys,"  "seques- 
tered lakes,"  and  "noisy  rivulets,"  —  of  rich  grassy  lawns,  and 
cascades  that  come  bursting  in  foam  from  bosky  hill-sides,  — 
of  monumental  urns,  tablets,  and  temples,  —  of  hermitas^es  and 
priories  ;  and  I  had  now  come  to  see  in  what  degree  ray  con- 
ceptions, drawn  from  the  description,  corresponded  with  the 
original,  if,  indeed,  the  original  still  maintained  the  impress 
given  it  by  the  genius  of  Shenstone.  His  writings,  like  almost 
all  poetic  writings  that  do  not  please  equally  at  sixteen  and 
cixty,  had  stood  their  testing  century  but  indifferently  well.  No 
one  at  least  would  now  venture  to  speak  of  him  as  the  "  cele- 
brated poet,  whose  divine  elegies  do  honor  to  our  nation,  our 
language,  and  our  species ;"  though  such,  sixty  years  ago,  was 
the  estimate  of  Burns,  when  engaged  in  writing  his  preface  to 
an  uncouth  volume  of  poems  first  published  at  Kilmarnock, 
that  promise  to  get  over  their  century  with  much  greater  ease. 
On  the  "Leasowes,"  —  by  far  the  most  elaborate  of  all  the 
compositions  of  its  author,  —  the  ingenious  thinking  of  full 
twenty  years  had  been  condensed  ;  and  I  was  eager  to  ascertain 
whether  it  had  fiot  stood  its  testing  century  better,  under  the 
skyey  influences,  than  "  Ophelia's  Urn,"  or  "  the  Song  of  Colin, 
a  discerning  Shepherd,"  under  those  corresponding  influences 
of  the  literary  heavens  which  freshen  and  preserve  whatever 
has  life  in  it,  and  wear  down  and  dilapidate  whatever  is  dead. 
A  little  after  ten  o'clock,  a  gentleman,  who  travelled  in  his 
own  carriage,  entered  the  inn,  —  a  frank,  genial  Englishman, 
who  seemet'  to  have  a  kind  word  for  every  one.  and  whom  the 


160  FIRST    IMPRKSSIONS    or 

inn-pec  pie  addressed  as  the  Squire.  My  Scotch  tor.gue  revealed 
my  country;  atid  a  few  questions  on  the  part  of  the  Squire, 
about  Scotland  and  Scotch  matters,  fairly  launched  us  into  con- 
versation. I  had  come  to  Hales  Owen  to  see  the  Leasowes,  1 
said  :  when  a  very  young  man,  I  used  to  dream  about  them  full 
tive  hundred  miles  away,  among  the  rocks  and  hills  of  the  wild 
north  ;  and  I  had  now  availed  myself  of  my  first  opportunity 
of  paying  them  a  visit.  The  Squire,  as  he  in  turn  informed 
mC;  had  taken  the  inn  in  his  way  to  rusticate  for  a  few  days  at 
a  small  property  of  his  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the 
Leasowes:  and  if  I  but  called  on  him  on  the  morrow  at  his 
temporary  dwelling, —  Squire  Eyland's  Mill,  —  all  the  better  if 
f  came  to  breakfast,  —  he  would,  he  said,  fairly  enter  me  on  the 
grounds,  and  introduce  me,  as  we  went,  to  the  old  ecclesiastical 
building  which  forms  the  subject  of  one  of  Shenstone's  larger 
poems,  "  The  Ruined  Abbey."  He  knew  all  the  localities, — 
which  one  acquainted  with  but  the  old  classic  descriptions 
would  now  find  it  difficult  to  realize,  for  the  place  had  fallen 
into  a  state  of  sad  dilapidation ;  and  often  acted  the  part  of 
cicerone  to  his  friends.  I  had  never  met  with  anything  half  so 
frank  in  Scotland  from  the  class  who  travel  in  their  own  car- 
riages; and,  waiving  but  the  breakfast,  I  was  next  morning  at 
the  Mill,  —  a  quiet,  rustic  dwelling,  at  the  side  of  a  green  lane, 
—  a  little  before  ten.  It  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  flat  valley,  with 
a  small  stream,  lined  by  many  a  rich  meadow,  stealing  between 
its  fringes  of  willows  and  alders;  and  with  the  Leasowes  on 
the  one  hand,  and  the  Clent  Hills,  little  more  than  an  hour's 
walk  away,  on  the  other,  it  must  form,  in  the  season  of  green 
fields  and  clear  skies,  a  delightful  retreat. 

The  Squire  led  me  through  the  valley  adown  the  course  of 
the  stream  for  nearly  a  mile,  and  then  holding  to  the  right  foi 
nearly  a  qvarter  of  a  mile  more,  we  came  full  upon  the  niins 


ENGLAND    AND   ITS    PEOPLE.  161 

Df  Hales  O'.ven  Abbey.  The  mace  of  the  bluff  Harry  had  fallen 
heavy  upon  the  pile  :  it  had  proved,  in  after  times,  a  convenient 
quarry  for  the  neighboring  farm-houses,  and  the  repair  of  roads 
and  fences  for  miles  around  ;  and  so  it  now  consists  of  but  a 
few  picturesque  fragments  cut  apart  by  wide  gaps,  in  which  we 
fail  to  trace  even  the  foundations,  —  fragments  that  rise  insu- 
lated and  tall,  —  here  wrapt  up  in  ivy,  —  there  bristling  with 
wall-flower,  —  over  hay-ricks  and  antique  farm-offices,  and 
moss-grown  fruit-trees,  and  all  those  nameless  appurtenances 
which  a  Dutchman  would  delight  to  paint,  of  a  long-established 
barn-yard,  farm-house,  and  orchard.  I  saw,  resting  against 
one  of  the  walls,  the  rudely-carved  lid  of  a  stone  coffm,  which 
exhibits  in  a  lower  corner  a  squat  figure  in  the  attitude  of 
adoration  ;  and  along  the  opposite  side  and  upper  corner,  an 
uncouth  representation  of  the  crucifixion,  in  which  the  figure 
on  the  cross  seems  that  of  a  gaunt  ill-proportioned  skeleton. 
Covered  over,  however,  with  the  lichens  of  ages,  and  garnished 
with  a  light  border  of  ground  ivy,  —  a  plant  which  greatly 
abounds  amid  the  ruins,  —  its  antique  misproportions  seem 
quite  truthful  enough,  and  impress  more  than  elegance.  One 
tall  gable,  that  of  the  chancel,  which  forms  the  loftiest  part  of 
the  pile,  still  remains  nearly  entire  ;  and  its  great  window,  once 
emblazoned  with  the  arms  of  old  Judge  Lyttelton,  but  now 
stripped  of  stanied  glass  ;'nd  carved  raullion,  is  richly  festooned 
with  ivy.  A  wooden  pigeon-house  has  been  stuck  up  in  the 
opening,  and  half  a  dozen  white  pigeons  were  fluttering  in  the 
sunshine  this  morning,  round  the  ivied  gable-top.  The  dust  of 
the  old  learned  lawyer  lies  under  the  hay-ricks  below,  with  that 
of  nameless  warriors  and  forgotten  churchmen  :  and  when  the 
siade  *urns  up  the  soil,  fragments  of  human  bones  are  found 
ih'ckly  mingled  with  bits  of  painted  tiles  and  stained  glass. 
It  may  be  thought  I  am  but  wasting  words  in  describing  sc 
14* 


Wd  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

broken  a  ruin,  seeing  I  must  have  passed  many  finer  ones 
undescribed;  but  it  will,  1  trust,  be  taken  into  account  tliat  I 
had  perused  the  "Ruined  Abbey"  at  least  twice  every  twelve- 
month, from  my  twelfth  to  my  twentieth  year,  and  that  I  had 
now  before  me  the  original  of  the  picture.  The  poem  is  not  a 
particularly  fine  one,  Shenstone's  thinking  required  rhyme, 
just  as  Pope's  weikly  person  needed  stays,  to  keep  it  tolerably 
erect ;  and  the  "  Ruined  Abbey  "  is  in  blank  verse.  There  is 
poetry,  however,  in  some  of  the  conceptions,  such  as  that  of 
the  peasant,  in  the  days  of  John,  returning  listless  from  his 
fields  after  the  Pope  had  pronounced  his  dire  anathema,  and 
seeing  in  every  dark  overbellying  cloud 

"  A  vengeful  angel,  in  whose  waving  scroll 
He  read  damnation." 

Nor  is  the  following  passage,  —  descriptive  of  the  same  gloomy 
season  of  terror  and  deprivation,  —  though  perhaps  inferior  io 
s.egance  and  effect  to  the  parallel  passage  in  the  prose  of 
llu  le,  without  merit:  — 

*'  The  wretch,  —  whose  hope,  by  stern  oppression  chased 
From  every  earthly  bliss,  still  as  it  saw 
Triumphant  wrong,  took  wing  and  flew  to  heaven, 
And  rested  there,  —  now  mourned  his  refuge  lost. 
And  wonted  peace.     The  sacred  fane  was  barred  ; 
And  the  lone  altar,  where  the  mourners  thronged 
To  supplicate  remission,  smoked  no  more  ; 
While  the  green  weed  luxuriant  rose  around. 
Some  from  their  deathbed,  in  delirious  woe, 
Beheld  the  ghastly  king  approach,  begirt 
In  tenfold  terrors,  or,  expiring,  heard 
The  last  loud  clarion  sound,  and  Heaven's  decree 
With  unremitting  vengeance  bar  the  skies. 
Nor  light  the  grief,  —  by  Superstition  weighed,  — 
That  their  dishonored  corse,  shut  from  the  verge 
Of  hallowed  earth  or  tutelary  fixne. 
Must  sleep  with  brutes,  their  vassals,  in  the  &dd« 
Beneath  some  path  ii  marie  unexorcised. " 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOl'LE.  163 

The  chief  interest  of  the  poem,  however,  does  not  lie  in  its 
p';etry.  It  forms  one  of  the  most  curious  illustrations  I  know 
of  the  strong  anti-Popish  zeal,  apart  from  religious  feeling, 
which  was  so  general  in  England  during  the  last  century,  and 
which,  in  the  Lord-George-Gordon  mobs,  showed  itself  so  very 
formidable  a  principle  when  fairly  aroused.  Dickens'  picture, 
in  "  Barnaby  Rudge,"  of  the  riots  of  17S0,  has  the  merit  of 
being  faithful;  —  his  religious  mobs  are  chiefly  remarkable  for 
being  mobs  in  which  there  is  no  religion;  but  his  picture  would 
be  more  faithful  still,  had  he  made  them  in  a  slight  degree  Prot- 
estant. Shenstone,  like  the  Lord-George-Gordon  mob,  was 
palpably  devoid  of  religion,  —  "  an  elegant  heathen,  rather  than 
a  Christian,"  whose  poetry  contains  verses  in  praise  of  almost 
every  god  except  (he  true  one  ;  and  who,  when  peopling  his 
Elysium  with  half  the  deities  of  Olympus,  saw  nymphs  and 
satyrs  in  his  very  dreams.  But  though  only  an  indifferent 
Christian,  he  was  an  excellent  Protestant.  There  are  passages 
in  the  "Ruined  Abbey"  that  breathe  the  very  spirit  of  the 
English  soldiery,  whose  anti-Popish  huztas,  on  the  eve  of  the 
Revolution,  deafened  their  infatuated  monarch  in  his  tent. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  following  :  — 

"  Hard  was  our  fate  while  Rome's  Jircctor  taaght 
Of  subjects  born  to  be  their  monarch's  pi'ey  ; 
To  toil  for  monks,  —  for  gluttony  to  toil, — 
For  vacant  gluttony,  extortion,  fraud, 
For  avarice,  envy,  pride,  revenge,  and  shame  ! 
O,  doctrine  breathed  from  Stygian  caves  !  exhaled 
From  inmost  Erebus  !  " 

Not  less  decided  is  the  passage  in  which  he  triumphs  over  thi 
Buppre?sion  of  the  Monasteries,  "  by  Tudor's  wild  caprice." 

"  Then  from  its  towering  height,  with  horrid  sound, 
Ruslicd  the  proud  Abbey.  Then  the  vaulted  roofs, 
C?orn  from  their  walla,  disclosed  the  wanton  scene 


164 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OP 


Of  monkish  chastity  !     Each  angry  friar 
Crawled  from  his  bedded  strumpet,  muttering  low 
An  ineifectual  curse.     The  pervious  nooks, 
Tliat  ages  past  conveyed  the  guileful  priest 
To  play  some  image  on  the  gaping  crowd. 
Imbibe  the  novel  daylight,  and  expose 
Obvious  the  fraudful  engin'ry  of  Rome." 

Even  M  ith  all  his  fine  taste,  and  high  appreciation,  for  the  pur* 
poses  of  the  landscape-gardener,  of  Zio«ajf6?e  pieces  of  antiquity, 
rich  in  association,  it  is  questionable,  from  the  following  passage, 
whether  his  anti-Popish  antipathies  would  not  have  led  him  to 
join  our  Scotch  iconoclasts  in  their  stern  vvork  of  dilapidation 

"  Henceforth  was  plied  the  long-continued  task 
Of  righteous  havoc,  covering  distant  fields 
With  the  Avrought  remnants  of  the  shattered  pile  ; 
Till  recent,  through  the  land,  the  pilgrim  sees 
Rich  tracts  of  brighter  green,  and  in  the  midst 
Gray  mouldering  walls,  with  nodding  ivy  crowned. 
Or  Gothic  turret,  pride  of  ancient  days. 
Now  but  of  use  to  grace  a  rural  scene. 
To  bound  our  vistas,  and  to  glad  the  sons 
Of  Geoi-ge's  reign,  reserved  for  fairer  times." 

In  "The  Schoolmistress,"  the  most  finished  and  pleasing  oi 
Shenstone's  longer  poems,  we  find  one  of  the  sources  of  the 
feeling  somewhat  unwittingly  exhibited.  "  Shenstone  learned 
to  read,"  says  Johnson,  in  his  biography,  "  of  an  old  dame, 
whom  his  poem  of  'The  Schoolmistress'  has  delivered  to  pos- 
terity." "  The  house  of  my  old  schooldame  Sarah  Lloyd,"  we 
find  the  poet  himself  saying,  in  one  of  his  earlier  letters  (1741), 
"  is  to  be  seen  as  thou  travellest  towards  the  native  home  of 
thy  faithful  servant.  But  she  sleeps  with  her  fathers,  and  i? 
buried  with  her  fathers ;  and  Thomas  her  son  reigneth  in  her 
stead."  Of  the  good  Sarah  Lloyd  we  learn  from  the  poem, — 
»  piece  of  ■  aformutio' i  suited  to  show  how  shrewd  a  part  Pusey- 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  165 

isin  iis  acting  in  possessing  itself  of  the  humbler  scnools  of  the 
r.ountiy,  —  t\ia< 

••  She  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore. 
And  passed  much  time  in  truly  virtuous  deed, 
And  in  her  elfins'  ears  -would  oft  deplore 
The  times  when  truth  by  Popish  rage  did  bleed. 
And  tort'rous  death  was  true  devotion's  meed. 
And  simple  Faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn. 
That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed. 
And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did  burn  : 
0,  dearest  Lord,  forfend  thilk  days  should  e'er  retui-n  !  " 

The  anti-Popish  feeling  of  England,  which  existed,  as  in 
Shenstone,  almost  wholly  apart  from  doctrinal  considerations 
seems  to  have  experienced  no  diminution  till  after  the  suppres- 
sion of  the  rebellion  of  1745.  A  long  series  of  historic  events 
had  served  first  to  originate,  and  then  to  fill  with  it  to  satura- 
tion every  recess  of  the  popular  mind.  The  horrors  of  the 
Marian  persecution,  rendered  patent  to  all  by  the  popular  narra- 
tives of  Fox, —  the  Invincible  Armada  and  its  thumb-screws. 
—  the  diabolical  plot  of  the  time  of  James,  —  the  Irish  Massa- 
cre of  the  following  reign,  —  the  fierce  atrocities  of  Jeffries  in 
the  Monmouth  rising,  intimately  associated,  in  the  Protestant 
mind  of  the  country,  with  the  Popery  of  his  master,  —  the  im- 
prisonment of  the  bishops,  —  and  the  influence  of  the  anti- 
Romish  teaching  of  the  English  Church  after  the  Revolution, 
with  the  dread,  for  many  years,  of  a  Popish  Pretender,  —  had 
all  united  to  originate  and  develop  the  sentiment  which,  in  its 
abstract  character,  we  find  so  adequately  represented  in  Shen- 
stone. Much  about  the  time  of  the  poet's  death,  howevei,  a 
decided  reaction  began  to  take  place.  The  Pretender  died ; 
the  whigs  originated  their  scheme  of  Roman  Catholic  Ema 
cipation ;  a/heistic  violence  had  been  let  loose  on  the  clergy  of 
France,  no*  in  their  character  as  Popish,  but  in  their  charactei 


166  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF 

as  Cliiistrm;  and  both  the  genius  of  Burke  and  the  piety  ol 
Hall  h-id  ippcaled  to  the  Protestant  sympathies  of  England  in 
their  behalf.  The  singularly  anomalous  position  and  palpable 
inefficiency  of  the  Irish  Establishment  had  created  a  very  gen- 
eral diversion  in  favor  of  the  Popish  majority  of  Ireland  ;  the 
Voluntary  controversy  united  Evangelistic  Dissent  and  Roman 
Catholicism  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  cause,  —  at  least  Evan- 
gelistic Dissent  was  fond  enough  to  believe  the  cause  a  com- 
mon one,  and  learned  to  speak  with  respect  and  regard  of 
"  Roman  Catholic  brethren ;"  the  spread  of  Puseyism  in  the 
English  Establishment  united,  by  sympathies  of  a  different  but 
not  weaker  kind,  the  Papist  and  the  High  Churchman  ;  the  old 
anti- Popish  feeling  has  been  gradually  sinking  under  the  influ- 
ence of  so  many  reactive  causes ;  and  not  since  the  times  of 
the  Reformation  was  it  at  so  low  an  ebb  as  in  England  at  the 
present  day.  It  would  seem  as  if  every  old  score  was  to  be 
blotted  off,  and  Popery  to  be  taken  a  second  time  on  trial.  But 
it  will  ultimately  be  found  wanting,  and  will,  as  in  France  and 
Germany,  have  just  to  be  condemned  again.  The  stiff  rigidity 
of  its  unalterable  codes  of  practice  and  belief,  —  inadequately 
compensated  by  the  flexibility  of  its  wilier  votaries,  —  has  inca- 
pacitated it  from  keeping  up  with  the  human  mind  in  its  on- 
ward march.  If  it  be  the  sure  destiny  of  man  to  rise,  it  must 
be  the  as  inevitable  fate  of  Popery  to  sink.  The  excesses  of 
fifteen  hundred  years  have  vitiated  and  undermined  its  consti- 
tution, intellectual  and  moral ;  its  absurder  beliefs  have  become 
incompatible  with  advanced  knowledge,  —  its  more  despotic 
assumptions  with  rational  freedom;  and  were  it  not  for  the 
craving  vacuum  in  the  public  mind  which  infidelity  is  continu- 
ally creating  for  superstition  to  fill,  and  into  which  Popery  is 
fitfully  rushing  'ike  steam  into  the  condenser  of  an  engine, 
again  and  agair.  to  ")e  annihilated,  and  again  and  again  to  flow 


ENGLAND   AND   ITS    PEOPLE.  16? 

in,  its  day,  m  at  least  the  more  enlightened  pntions  of  the 
empire,  would  not  be  long. 

There  seems  to  be  a  considerable  resemblance  at  bottom 
between  the  old  English  feeling  exemplified  in  Shenstcae,  and 
that  which  at  present  animates  the  Ronge  movcnent  in  Ger- 
mapv.     We  find  the  English  poet  exclaiming, 

"  Hail,  honored  WickliflFe,  enterprising  sage  ! 
An  Epicurus  in  the  cause  of  truth !  !  " 

And  the  continental  priest,  —  occupying  at  best  but  a  half-way 
position  between  Luther  and  Voltaire,  and  who  can  remark  in 
his  preachings  that  "  if  Roman  Catholics  have  a  Pope  at  Rome, 
the  Protestants  have  made  their  Pope  of  a  book,  and  that  that 
book  is  but  a  dead  letter,"  —  apostrophizes  in  a  similar  spirit 
the  old  German  reformers.  I  can,  however,  see  nothing  incon- 
sistent in  the  zeal  of  such  men.  It  does  not  greatly  require 
the  aid  of  religion  to  enable  one  to  decide  that  exhibitions  such 
as  that  of  the  holy  coat  of  Treves  are  dishonest  and  absurd,  or 
to  warm  with  indignation  at  the  intolerance  that  would  make 
one's  liberty  or  life  pay  the  penalty  of  one's  freedom  of  opinion. 
Shenstone,  notwithstanding  his  indifference  to  the  theological, 
was  quite  religious  enough  to  have  been  sabred  or  shot,  had  he 
been  at  Paris  on  the  eve  of  St.  Bartholomew,  or  knocked  on 
the  head  if  in  Ulster  at  the  time  of  the  Irish  massacre.  What, 
apart  from  religious  considerations,  is  chiefly  to  be  censured 
and  regretted  in  the  zeal  of  the  Ronges  and  Shenstones,  Mich- 
elets  and  Eugene  Sues,  is,  not  that  it  is  inconsistent,  but  that 
it  constitutes  at  best  but  a  vacuum-creating  power.  It  forms  a 
void  where,  'u\  tlie  nature  of  things,  no  void  can  permanently 
exist,  and  which  superstition  is  ever  rushing  in  tc  fill ;  and  so 
(lie  progress  of,  the  race,  wherever  it  is  influentia 'ly  cperatlve, 
inste'id  of  being  conducted  onwards  in  its  proper  l;xie  cf  nitrch. 


168  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

becomes  a  weary  cycle,  that  ever  returns  upon  itself.  Tht 
human  intellect,  under  its  influence,  seems  as  if  drawn  w  ithin 
the  ceaselessly-revolving  eddies  of  a  giddy  maelstrom,  or  as  if  ii 
had  become  obnoxious  to  the  remarkable  curse  pronounced  of 
old  by  the  Psalmist :  I  quote  from  the  version  of  Milton, 

"  My  God  !  oh,  make  them  as  a  wheel ; 
No  quiet  let  them  find  ; 
Giddy  and  restless  let  them  reel 
Like  stubble  from  the  wind." 

History  is  emphatic  on  the  point.  Nearly  three  centuries  have 
elapsed  since  the  revived  Christianity  of  the  Reformation  sup- 
planted Roman  Catholicism  in  Scotland.  But  mere  was  no 
vacuum  created ;  the  space  previously  taken  up  in  the  popular 
mind  by  the  abrogated  superstition  was  amply  occupied  by  the 
resuscitated  faith  ;  and,  as  a  direct  consequence,  whatever  reac- 
tion in  favor  of  Popery  may  have  taken  place  among  the  people 
is  of  a  purely  political,  not  religious  character.  With  Popery 
as  a  religion  the  Presbyterian  Scotch  are  as  far  from  closing 
now  as  they  ever  were.  But  how  entirely  different  has  been 
the  state  of  matters  in  France !  There  are  men  still  living 
who  remember  the  death  of  Voltaire.  In  the  course  of  a  single 
lifetime,  Popery  has  been  twice  popular  and  influential  in  that' 
country,  and  twice  has  the  vacuum-creating  power,  more  than 
equally  popular  and  influential  for  the  time,  closed  chill  and 
cold  around  it,  to  induce  its  annihilation.  The  literature  of 
France  for  the  last  half-century  is  curiously  illustrative  of  this 
process  of  action  and  reaction,  —  of  condensation  and  expan 
sion.  It  exhibits  during  that  period  three  distinct  gr«  ups  of 
authors.  There  is  first  a  group  of  vacuum-creators, —  n  sur- 
viving remnant  of  the  Encyclopedists  of  the  previous  h^'f-ceu- 
tury — adequately  represented  by  Condorcet.  and  the  Abbe 
Ray  lal ;  next  appears  a  group  of  the  reactionists,  repre  ented 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  160 

equally  x(j]\  by  Chateaubriand  and  Lamartine  ;  and  then  —  for 
Poperj'  has  again  become  monstrous, —  we  see  a  second  group 
of  vacuum-creators  in  the  Eugene  Sues  and  Michelets,  the  most 
popular  French  writers  of  the  present  day.  And  thus  must  the 
cycle  revolve,  "unquiet  and  giddy  as  a  wheel,"  until  France 
shall  find  rest  in  the  Christianity  of  the  New  Testament. 

I  spent  so  much  time  among  the  ruins,  that  my  courteous 
conductor  the  Squire,  who  had  business  elsewhere  to  attend  to, 
had  to  leave  me,  after  first,  however,  setting  me  on  my  way  to 
the  Leaoowes,  and  kindly  requesting  me  to  make  use  of  his 
name,  if  the  person  who  farmed  the  grounds  demurred,  as 
sometimes  happened  with  strangers,  to  give  ine  admission  to 
them.  I  struck  up  the  hill,  crossed  a  canal  that  runs  along  its 
side,  got  into  a  cross  road  between  sheltered  belts  of  planting, 
and  then,  with  the  Leasowes  full  in  front,  stopped  at  a  small 
nailery,  to  ask  at  what  point  I  might  most  easily  gain  access  to 
them.  The  sole  workers  in  the  nailery  were  two  fresh-colored, 
good-looking  young  girls,  whose  agile,  well-turned  arms  were 
plying  the  hammer  with  a  rapidity  that  almost  eluded  the  eye, 
and  sent  the  quick  glancing  sparks  around  them  in  showers. 
Both  stopped  short  in  their  work,  and  came  to  the  door  to  point 
out  what  they  deemed  the  most  accessible  track.  There  was 
no  gate,  they  said,  in  this  direction,  but  I  would  find  many  gaps 
m  the  fence :  they  were  in  doubt,  however,  whether  the  people 
at  the  "white  house"  would  give  me  leave  to  walk  over  the 
grounds:  certainly  the  nailer  lads  were  frequently  refused; 
and  tliey  were  sorry  they  could  n't  do  anything  for  me  :  I  would 
bo  sure  of  permission  if  they  could  give  it  me.  At  all  events, 
said  I,  I  shall  take  the  longest  possible  road  to  the  white  house, 
ond  see  a  good  deal  of  the  grounds  ere  I  meet  with  the  lefusal. 
Both  the  naileresses  laugheo ,  and  one  of  them  said  she  had 
always  heard  the  Scotch  were  "  long-headed.'  Hales  Owen 
15 


170  FIRST    I31PRESSI0NS    OF 

i^nd  its  precincts  are  included  in  the  great  iron  district  (  61^ 
mingham;  and  the  special  branch  of  the  iron  trade  whicii  falla 
to  the  share  of  the  people  is  the  manufacture  of  nails.  The 
suburbs  of  the  town  are  formed  chiefly  of  rows  of  little  brick- 
houses,  with  a  nail-shop  in  each ;  and  the  quick,  smart  patter 
of  hammers  sounds  incessantly,  in  one  encircling  girdle  of  din, 
from  early  morning  till  late  night.  As  I  passed  through,  on 
my  way  to  the  Squire's  Mill,  I  saw  whole  families  at  work 
together, —  father,  mother,  sons,  and  daughters;  and  met  in 
itreets  young  girls,  not  at  all  untidily  dressed  considering  the 
character  of  their  vocation,  trundling  barrowfuls  of  coal  to  thoir 
'brges,  or  carrying  on  their  shoulders  bundles  of  rod-iron.  Of 
11  our  poets  of  the  last  century,  there  was  scarce  one  so 
addicted  to  the  use  of  those  classic  nicknames  which  impart  so 
unreal  an  air  to  English  poetry,  when  bestowed  on  English 
men  and  women,  as  poor  Shenstone.  We  find  his  verses 
dusted  over  with  Delias,  and  Cecilias,  and  Ophelias,  Flavia?, 
md  Fulvias,  Chloes,  Daphnes,  and  Phillises;  and,  as  if  to  give 
them  the  necessary  prominence,  the  printer,  in  all  the  older  edi- 
tions, has  relieved  them  from  the  surrounding  text  by  the  em- 
ployment of  staring  capitals.  I  had  read  Shenstone  early 
enough  to  wonder  what  sort  of  looking  people  his  Delias  and 
Cecilias  were ;  and  novv,  ere  plunging  into  the  richly-wooded 
L'^asowes,  I  had  got  hold  of  the  right  idea.  The  two  young 
naileresses  were  really  very  pretty.  Cecilia,  a  ruddy  blonde, 
was  fabricating  tackets;  and  Delia,  a  bright-eyed  brunette, 
engaged  in  heading  a  double-double. 

Ere  entering  on  the  grounds,  however,  I  must  attempt  doing 
wliat  Dodsley  has  failed  to  do,  —  I  must  try  whether  I  cannot 
give  the  reader  some  idea  of  the  Leasowes  as  a  whole,  in  theii 
relation  to  the  surrounding  country.  Let  us,  then,  once  more 
return  to  the  three  Silurian  eminences  that  rise  island-like  from 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PE  )PLk!;.  171 

the  basin  of  the  Dudley  coal-field,  and  the  parallel  line  of  tmp 
hills  that  stretches  away  amid  the  New  Red  Sandstont.  I 
have  described  the  lines  as  parallel,  but,  like  the  outstretched 
sides  of  a  parallel-ruler,  not  opposite.  There  joins  on,  however, 
to  the  Silurian  line, —  like  a  prolongation  of  one  of  the  right 
lines  of  the  mathematician  indicated  by  dots,  —  an  extension  of 
the  chain,  not  Silurian,  which  consists  of  eminences  of  a  flatter 
and  humbler  character  than  either  the  Wren's  Nest  or  the 
Castle  Hill,  and  which  runs  opposite  to  the  trap  chain  for  sev- 
eral miles.  One  of  these  supplementary  eminences  —  the  one 
adjoining  the  Castle  Hill  —  is  composed  of  the  trap  to  which 
the  entire  line  owes  its  elevation  ;  and  a  tall,  cairn-like  group 
of  apparent  boulders,  that  seem  as  if  they  had  been  piled  up  by 
giants,  but  are  mere  components  of  a  partially  disintegrated 
projection  from  the  rock  below,  occupies  its  summit.  In  the 
flat  hill  directly  beyond  it,  though  the  trap  does  not  appear,  it 
has  tilted  up  the  Lower  Coal  Measures,  amid  the  surrounding 
New  Red  Sandstone,  saddlewise  on  its  back ;  the  strata  shelve 
downwards  on  both  sides  from  the  anticlinal  line  atop,  like  the 
opposite  sides  of  a  roof  from  the  ridge ;  and  the  entire  hill,  to 
use  a  still  humbler  illustration,  resembles  a  huge  blister  in  new 
plaster,  fonned  by  the  expansion  of  some  fragment  of  unslaked 
lime  in  the  ground-coating  beneath.  Now,  it  is  with  this  hill 
of  the  Lower  Coal  Measures  —  this  huge  blister  of  millstone 
grit  —  that  we  have  chiefly  to  do. 

Let  the  reader  imagine  it  of  soft  swelling  outline,  and  ample 
base,  with  the  singularly  picturesque  trap  range  full  in  front, 
soma  four  miles  away,  and  a  fair  rural  valley  lying  between. 
Let  him  further  imagine  the  side  of  the  hill  furrowed  by  a 
transverse  valley,  opening  at  right  angles  into  the  great  front 
vallev,  and  separating  atop  into  two  forks,  >r  branches,  that  run 
ap,  shallowing  as  they  go,  to  near  the  hill-top.     Lei  him.  in 


172  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OP 

short,  imagine  tj  s  great  valley  a  broad  right  line,  and  tne 
transverse  forked  valley  a  gigantic  letter  Y  resting  on  it.  And 
this  forked  valley  on  the  hill-side  —  this  gigantic  letter  Y  — 
is  the  Leasowes.  The  picturesqueness  of  such  a  position  can 
be  easily  appreciated.  The  forked  valley,  from  head  to  gorge, 
in  a  reclining  valley,  partaking  along  its  bottom  of  the  slope  of 
the  eminence  on  which  it  lies,  and  thus  possessing,  what  is  by 
no  means  common  among  the  valleys  of  England,  true  down- 
hill water-courses,  along  which  the  gathered  waters  may  leap 
m  a  chain  of  cascades ;  and  commanding,  in  its  upper  recesses, 
though  embraced  and  sheltered  on  every  side  by  the  surround- 
ing hill,  extended  prospects  of  the  country  below.  It  thus  com- 
bines the  scenic  advantages  of  both  hollow  and  rising  ground, 
—  the  quiet  seclusion  of  the  one,  and  the  expansive  landscapes 
of  the  other.  The  broad  valley  into  which  it  opens  is  rich  and 
well  wooded.  Just  in  front  of  the  opening  we  see  a  fine  sheet 
of  water,  about  twenty  acres  in  extent,  the  work  of  the  monks  ; 
immediately  to  the  right  stand  the  ruins  of  the  abbey ;  imme- 
diately to  the  left,  the  pretty  compact  town  of  Hales  Owen  lies 
grouped  around  its  fine  old  church  and  spire ;  a  range  of  green 
swelling  eminences  rises  beyond ;  beyond  these,  fainter  in  the 
distance,  and  considerably  bolder  in  outline,  ascends  the  loftier 
range  of  the  trap  hills,  —  one  of  the  number  roughened  by  the 
tufted  woods,  and  crowned  by  the  obelisk  at  Hagley  ;  and,  over 
all,  blue  and  shadowy  on  the  far  horizon,  sweeps  the  undulat- 
mg  line  of  the  mountains  of  Cambria.  Such  is  the  character 
of  the  grounds  which  poor  Shenstone  set  himself  to  convert  into 
an  carthl)''  paradise,  and  such  the  outline  of  the  surrounding 
landscape.  But  to  my  hard  anatomy  of  the  scene  I  must  add 
th^  poet's  own  ehgant  filling  up:  — 

"  Romantic  scenes  of  pendent  hills. 
And  verdant  vales  and  falling  rills. 


ENGLAND  AND  iTS  PEOPLE.  173 

And  mossy  banks  the  fields  adorn, 

V/here  Damon,  simple  swain,  was  bom. 

The  Dryads  reared  a  shady  grove. 

Where  such  as  think,  and  such  as  love. 

Might  safely  sigh  their  summer's  day. 

Or  muse  their  silent  hours  away. 

The  Oreads  liked  the  climate  well, 

And  taught  the  level  plains  to  swell 

In  verdant  mounds,  fi'om  whence  the  eye 

Might  all  their  larger  works  descry. 

The  Naiads  poured  their  urns  around 

From  nodding  rocks  o'er  vales  profound; 

They  formed  their  streams  to  please  the  view. 

And  bade  them  wind  as  serpents  do; 

And  having  shown  them  where  to  stray. 

Threw  little  pebbles  in  their  way." 

,  J  ^ot  ready  permission  at  the  house  of  the  Leasowes  —  a 
mr «lern  building  erected  on  the  site  of  that  in  which  Shenstone 
resided  —  to  walk  over  the  grounds ;  and  striking  upwards 
directly  along  the  centre  of  the  angular  tongue  of  land  which 
divided  the  two  forks  of  the  valley,  I  gained  the  top  of  the  hill, 
purposing  to  descend  to  where  the  gorge  opens  below  along  the 
one  fork,  and  to  reilscend  along  the  other.  On  the  hill-top,  a 
single  field's  I  icadth  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  Leasowes,  I 
met  a  tall  middle-aged  female,  whose  complexion,  much  em- 
browned by  tho  sun,  betrayed  the  frequent  worker  in  fields,  and 
her  stiff  angulyrity  of  figure,  the  state  of  single  blessedness,  and 
"maiden  meditation,  fancy  free,"  which  Shakspeare  compli- 
mented in  K  izabeth.  I  greeted  her  with  fair  good  day,  and 
asked  her  wl  jther  the  very  fine  grounds  below  were  not  the 
Leasowes?  c  •,  as  I  now  learned  to  pronounce  the  word,  Lisos, 
—  for  when  I  gave  it  its  long  Scotch  sound,  no  one  in  the 
neighborhoo:  seemed  to  know  what  place  I  meant.  "  Ah,  yes,* 
said  she,  "  tl  ;  Lisos  !  —  they  were  much  thought  of  long  agc^ 
\U  Squire  S  enstone's  days ;  but  they  are  all  ruinated  now 
15* 


174  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

and,  except  on  Sundays,  when  the  nailer  lads  get  into  them 
when  they  can,  lew  people  come  their  way.  Squire  Shenstone 
was  a  poet,"  she  added,  "  and  died  for  love."  This  was  not 
^uite  the  case  :  the  Squire,  who  might  have  married  his  Phillia 
had  he  not  been  afraid  to  incur  the  expense  of  a  wife,  died  of 
a  putrid  fever  at  the  sober  age  of  forty-nine ;  but  there  would 
have  been  little  wit  in  substituting  a  worse  for  a  better  story, 
and  .so  I  received  without  challenge  the  information  of  the 
spii.ster.  In  descending,  I  took  the  right-hand  branch  of  the 
valley,  which  is  considerably  more  extended  than  that  to  the 
left.  A  low  clifT,  composed  of  the  yellow  gritty  sandstone  of 
the  Lower  Coal  Measures,  and  much  overhung  by  stunted  alder 
and  hazel  bushes,  stands  near  the  head  of  the  ravine,  just  where 
the  Leasowes  begin  ;  and  directly  out  of  the  middle  of  the  clifT, 
some  three  or  four  feet  from  its  base,  there  comes  leaping  to 
the  light,  as  out  of  the  smitten  rock  in  the  wilderness,  a  clear 
and  copious  spring,  —  one  of  the  "  health-bestowing  "  fountains, 

"  All  bordered  with  moss. 
Where  the  harebells  and  violets  grew," 

Alas !  moss,  and  harebells,  and  violets,  were  gone,  with  the 
path  which  had  once  led  to  the  spot,  and  the  seat  which  had 
once  fronted  it;  the  waters  fell  dead  and  dull  into  a  quagmire, 
like  young  human  life  leaping  out  of  unconscious  darkness  into 
misery,  and  then  stole  away  through  a  boggy  strip  of  rank  grass 
and  lushes,  a'ong  a  line  of  scraggy  alders.  All  was  changed 
rave  th3  fuU-volumed  spring,  and  it, — 

•♦  A  thousand  and  a  thousand  years, 
'Twill  flow  as  now  it  flows." 


ENGLAND  VND  ITS  PEOPLE.  175 


CHAPTER    IX. 

Detour.  -  The  I.easowes  deteriorated  wherever  the  Poet  had  built,  snd 
impro'jd  wherever  he  had  plantod.  —  View  from  the  Hanging  Wuod. 
-  Strsr.ogem  of  tlie  Island  Screen.  —  Virgil's  Grave.  —  Mound  of  the 
Hales  Owen  and  Birmingham  Canal  ;  its  sad  Interference  with  Shen- 
stone's  Poetic  Description  of  the  Infancy  of  the  Stour.  —  Vanisned 
Cascade  and  Root-house.  —  Somerville's  Urn.  —  "  To  all  Friends  round 
the  Wrekin." —  River  Scenery  of  the  Leasowes  ;  their  great  Variety.  -• 
Peculiar  Arts  of  the  Poet ;  his  Vistas,  when  seen  from  the  wrong  end, 
Realizations  of  Hogarth's  Caricature.  —  Shenstone  the  greatest  of  Land- 
scape Gardeners.  —  Estimate  of  Johnson.  —  Goldsmith's  History  of  the 
Leasowes  ;  their  after  History. 

The  water  creeps  downwards  from  where  it  leaps  from  the 
rock,  to  form  a  chain  of  artificial  lakes,  with  which  the  bottom 
of  the  dell  is  occupied,  and  which  are  threaded  by  the  water- 
course, like  a  necklace  of  birds'  eggs  strung  upon  a  cord.  Ere 
I  struck  down  on  the  upper  lake,  however,  I  had  to  make  a 
detour  of  a  few  hundred  yards  to  the  right,  to  see  what  Dodsley 
describes  as  one  of  the  finest  scenes  furnished  by  the  Leasowes, 
—  a  steep  terrace,  commanding  a  noble  prospect,  —  a  hanging 
wood,  —  an  undulating  pathway  over  uneven  ground,  that  rises 
and  falls  like  a  snake  in  motion,  —  a  monumental  tablet, — 
three  rustic  seats,  —  and  a  temple  dedicated  to  Pan.  The 
happy  corner  which  the  poet  had  thus  stuck  over  with  so  much 
bravery  is  naturally  a  very  pretty  one.  The  hill-side,  so  gentle 
hi  most  of  its  slopes,  descends  for  about  eighty  feet,  —  nearly  at 
right  angles  with  the  forked  valley,  and  nearly  parallel  to  the 
great  valley  in  front,  —  as  if  it  were  a  giant  wave  on  the  eve 
of  breaking;  and  it  is  on  this  steep  rampart-like  declivity   — 


176  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF 

this  gifint  wave, — that  the  hanging  wood  was  planteJ,  the 
andiflaing  path  formed,  and  the  seats  and  tei  .pie  erected. 
But  all  save  the  wood  has  either  wholly  vanished,  or  left  behind 
but  he  faintest  traces,  —  traces  so  faint  that,  save  for  the  plan 
of  the  grounds  appended  to  the  second  edition  of  Dodsley's 
description,  they  would  have  told  me  no  distinct  story. 

Ere  descending  the  rampart-like  acclivity,  but  just  as  the 
ground  begins  gradually  to  rise,  and  when  1  should  be  passing, 
according  to  Dodsley,  through  the  "  Lover's  Walk,"  a  seques- 
tered arboraceous  lane,  saddened  by  the  urn  of  "  poor  Miss 
Dolman,"  —  "  by  the  side  of  which"  there  had  flowed  "  a  small 
bubbling  rill,  forming  little  peninsulas,  rolling  over  pebbles,  or 
falling  down  small  cascades,  all  under  cover,  and  taught  to 
murmur  very  agreeably,"  —  1  found  myself  in  a  wild  tangled 
jungle,  with  no  path  under  foot,  with  the  "bubbling  rill"  con- 
verted into  a  black,  lazy  swamp,  with  thickets  of  bramble  all 
around,  through  which  I  had  to  press  my  way,  as  I  best  could, 
breast-high,  —  "poor  Miss  Dolman's"  urn  as  fairly  departed 
and  invisible  as  "poor  Miss  Dolman;"  in  short,  everything 
that  had  been  done  undone,  and  all  in  readiness  for  some 
second  Shenstone  to  begin  de  novo.  As  the  way  steepened, 
and  the  rank  aquatic  vegetation  of  the  swamp,  once  a  runnel, 
gave  place  to  plants  that  affect  a  drier  habitat,  I  could  detect 
in  the  hollow  of  the  hill  some  traces  of  the  old  path ;  but  the 
place  forms  a  receptacle  into  which  the  gusty  winter  winds 
sweep  the  shorn  leafage  of  the  hanging  wood  above,  and  so  1 
liad  to  stalk  along  the  once  trimly-kept  walk,  through  a  stra- 
tum of  decayed  leaves,  half-leg  deep.  In  the  middle  of  the 
hanging  wood  I  found  what  had  been  once  the  temple  of  Pan. 
There  is  a  levelled  space  on  the  declivity,  about  half  the  size 
.)f  an  ordinary  sitting  parlor :  the  winds  had  swept  it  bare ; 
and  there,  distinctly  visible  on  three  sides  of  the  area,  are  the 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  177 

foun  itions  of  a  thin  brick  wall,  that,  where  least  broken,  rises 
some  3"x  or  eight  inches  above  the  level.  A  little  further  on, 
where  the  wood  opens  on  one  of  the  loveliest  prospects  I  ever 
beheld,  I  found  a  decayed  oak-post  remaining-,  to  indicate  the 
locale  of  a  scat  that  had  once  eulogized  the  landscape  which  it 
fronted  in  a  classic  Latin  inscription.  But  both  seat  and  in- 
scription are  gone.  And  yet,  maugre  this  desolation,  not  in 
the  days  of  Shenstone  did  the  Leasowes  look  so  nobly  fiom 
this  elevation  as  they  did  this  day.  I  was  forcibly  reminded 
of  one  of  the  poet's  own  remarks,  and  the  completeness  of  its 
realization :  "  The  works  of  a  person  that  builds,"  he  says, 
"  begin  immediately  to  decay ;  while  those  of  him  who  plants 
Degin  directly  to  improve.  In  this,  planting  promises  a  more 
lasting  pleasure  than  building."  The  trees  of  the  Leasowes, 
when  the  Leasowes  formed  the  home  and  furnished  the  em- 
ployment of  the  poet,  seem  to  have  been  mere  saplings.  We 
find  him  thus  writing  to  a  friend  in  the  summer  of  1743:  — 
"A  malignant  caterpillar  has  demolished  the  beauty  of  all  our 
large  oaks.  Mine  are  secured  by  their  littleness.  But  I  guess 
Hagley  Park  suffers,  —  a  large  wood  near  me  being  a  winter- 
piece  for  nakedness."  More  than  a  hundred  years  have  since 
elapsed,  and  the  saplings  of  a  century  ago  have  expanded  intP 
the  dignity  of  full-grown  trechood.  The  hanging  wood,  com 
posed  chiefly  of  very  noble  beeches,  with  a  sprinkling  of  grace 
ful  birches  on  its  nether  skirt,  raises  its  crest  so  high  as  fully  to 
double  the  height  of  the  eminence  which  it  crowns  ;  while  the 
oaks  on  the  finely  varied  ground  below,  of  imposing  size,  and 
exhibiting  in  their  grouping  the  hand  of  the  master,  compose 
such  a  scene  as  the  finest  of  the  landscapes  designed  by  Mar- 
tin in  illustration  of  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost."  The  day  was 
warm,  calm,  cloudhss ;  t^.e  lights  and  shadows  lay  clear  and 
Iransjaren,  on  lake  qnd  stream,  dell  and  dingle,  green  swelling 


178  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

lawTi  and  tall  fojst  tree;  and  the  hanging  wood,  and  the 
mossy  escarpment  over  which  it  hangs,  were  as  musical  in  th»3 
bright  sunshine,  ,vith  the  murmur  of  bees,  as  when,  exactly 
a  hundred  and  two  years  before,  Shenstone  was  penning  his 
pastoral  ballad. 

Quitting  the  hanging  wood,  I  struck  athwart  the  declivity, 
direct  on  the  uppermost  lake  in  the  chain  which  I  have  de- 
scribed as  lying,  like  a  string  of  birds'  eggs,  along  the  bottom 
of  the  valley.  I  found  it  of  small  extent,  —  a  pond  or  lochan, 
rather  than  a  lake,  —  darkly  colored,  —  its  still,  black  surface 
partially  embroidered  by  floats  of  aquatic  plants,  among  which 
1  could  detect  the  broad  leaves  of  the  water-lily,  though  the 
flowers  were  gone,  —  and  overhung  on  all  sides  by  careless 
groups  of  trees,  that  here  and  there  dip  their  branches  in  the 
water.  In  one  striking  feature  of  the  place  we  may  still  detect 
the  skill  of  the  artist.  There  is  a  little  island  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  lake,  by  much  too  small  and  too  near  the  shore  to 
have  any  particular  interest  as  such ;  or,  indeed,  viewed  from 
below,  to  seem  an  island  at  all.  It  is  covered  by  a  thick  clump 
of  alders  of  low  growth,  just  tall  enough  and  thick  enough  to 
conceal,  screen-like,  the  steep  bank  of  the  lake  behind.  The 
top  of  the  bank  is  occupied  by  several  lofty  oaks  ;  and  as  the 
screen  of  alders  hides  the  elevation  on  which  they  stand,  they 
seem  to  rise  direct  from  the  level  of  the  water  to  the  giant 
stature  of  a  hundred  feet.  The  giants  of  the  theatre  are  made 
by  setting  one  man  on  the  shoulders  of  another,  and  then  throw- 
ing over  both  a  large  cloak ;  —  the  giant  trees  here  are  made 
by  setting  them  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  hill,  and  making  the 
ihick  island-screen  serve  the  purpose  of  the  concealing  mantle. 

The  second  lake  in  the  chain — a  gloomier  and  smaller  piece 
of  wate^r  than  the  first,  and  much  hidden  in  wood —  has  in  its 
present  st«te  no  beautj  to  recommend  it:  it  is  just  such  ap 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPI-E.  179 

inky  pool,  with  rotten  snags  projecting  frcm  its  slug gisn  sur- 
face, as  a  murderer  would  select  for  concealing  the  body  of  his 
victim.  A  forlorn  brick  ruin,  overflooded  by  the  neighboring 
streamlet,  and  capped  with  sickly  ivy,  stands  at  the  upper  end 
at  the  lower,  the  waters  escape  by  a  noisy  cascade  into  a 
secluded  swampy  hollow,  overshadowed  by  stately  oaks  and 
ashes,  much  intermixed  by  trees  of  a  lower  growth,  —  yew, 
holly,  and  hazel,  —  and  much  festooned  with  ivy.  We  find 
traces  of  an  untrodden  pathway  on  both  sides  the  stream,  with 
the  remains  of  a  small,  mouldering,  one-arched  bridge,  now 
never  crossed  over,  and  divested  of  both  its  parapets ;  and  in 
the  centre  of  a  circular  area,  surrounded  by  trees  of  loftiest 
stature,  we  may  see  about  twice  as  many  bricks  as  an  Irish 
laborer  would  trundle  in  a  wheel-barrow,  arranged  in  the  form 
of  a  small  square.  This  swampy  hollow  is  the  "  Virgil's 
Grove,"  so  elaborately  described  by  Dodsley,  and  which  so 
often  in  the  last  age  employed  the  pencil  and  the  burin  ;  and 
the  two  barrowfuls  of  brick  are  all  that  remain  of  the  obelisk 
of  Virgil.  I  had  run  not  a  few  narrow  chances  of  the  kind 
before  ;  but  I  now  fairly  sunk  half  to  the  knees  in  th*^  miry 
bottom,  and  then  pressing  onwards,  as  I  best  could, 

"  Quenched  in  a  boggy  Syrtis,  neither  sea, 
Nor  good  di-y  land,  nigli  foundered,  on  I  fared, 
Treading  the  crude  consistence  half  on  foot. 
Half  flying," 

till  I  reached  a  drier  soil  beside  yet  another  lake  in  the  chain, 
scarce  less  gloomy,  and  even  more  sequestered,  than  the  last. 
There  stick  out  along  its  edges  a  few  blackened  stumps-,  on 
which  several  bushy  clusters  of  fern  have  taken  root,  and 
which,  overshadowed  by  the  pendent  fronds,  seem  so  many 
small  tree-ferns.  I  marked  here,  for  the  first  time,  the  glancf 
of  scales  ard  the  splash  of  fins  in  the  water  ;  but  they  beloiigeo 


1 80  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF 

not  to  the  "  fishes  of  gold"  sung  by  the  poet,  but  to  some  half* 
dozen  pike  thnt  I  suppose  have  long  since  dealt  by  the  fishes 
Df  gold  as  the  bulkier  contemporaries  of  the  famous  Jack  the 
jJiant  Killer  used  to  deal  by  their  guests.  A  further  walk  of  a 
few  hundred  yards  through  the  wooded  hollow  brought  me  to 
tne  angle  where  the  forks  of  the  dell  unite  and  form  one  val- 
ley. A  considerable  piece  of  water  —  by  much  the  largest  on 
the  grounds  —  occupies  the  bottom  of  the  broad  hollow  which 
they  form  by  their  union, —  the  squat  stem,  to  use  a  former 
illustration,  of  the  letter  Y;  and  a  long  narroAV  bay  runs  from 
the  main  body  of  the  lake  up  each  of  the  two  forks,  losing  itself 
equally  in  both,  as  it  contracts  and  narrows,  amid  the  over- 
arching trees. 

There  is  a  harmony  of  form  as  certainly  as  of  sound,  —  a 
music  to  the  eye  in  the  one,  as  surely  as  to  the  ear  in  the 
other.  I  had  hitherto  witnessed  much  dilapidation  and  decay, 
but  it  was  dilapidation  and  decay  on  a  small  scale  ;  I  had  seen 
merely  the  wrecks  of  a  few  artificial  toys,  scattered  amid  the 
sublime  of  nature  ;  and  there  were  no  sensible  jarrings  in  the 
silent  concert  of  the  graceful  and  the  lovely,  which  the  entire 
scene  served  to  compose.  Here,  however,  all  of  a  sudden,  I 
was  struck  by  a  harsh  discord.  Where  the  valley  should  have 
opened  its  noble  gateway  into  the  champaign,  —  a  gateway 
placed  half-way  between  the  extended  magnificence  of  the 
expanse  below,  and  the  more  closely  concentrated  beauties  of 
the  twin  dells  above,  —  there  stretches,  from  bank  to  bank,  a 
stiff,  lumpish,  rectilinear  mound,  some  seventy  or  eighty  feet  m 
height,  by  some  two  or  three  hundred  yards  in  length,  that  bars 
out  the  landscape,  —  deals,  in  short,  by  the  wanderer  along  the 
ake  or  through  the  lower  reaches  of  the  dell,  as  some  refrac- 
tory land-steward  deals  by  some  hapless  railway  surveyor, 
'vhen,  squatting  dow    full  before  him,  he  spreads  out  a  broad 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  ISl 

extent  of  coat-tail,  and  eclipses  the  distant  sight.  Poor  Shen- 
Ptone  !  —  it  would  have  broken  his  heart.  That  unsightly 
mound  conveys  along  its  flat,  level  line,  straight  as  that  of  a 
ruler,  the  Birmingham  and  Hales  Owen  Canal.  Poor  Shen- 
stone  once  more !  With  the  peculiar  art  in  which  he  excelled 
all  men,  he  had  so  laid  out  his  lakes,  that  the  last  in  the  series 
?eemed  to  piece  on  to  the  great  twenty-acre  lake  dug  by  the 
monks,  and  so  to  lose  itself  in  the  general  landscape.  And  in 
one  of  his  letters  we  find  him  poetical  on  the  course  of  the 
vagrant  streams,  —  those  of  his  own  grounds,  —  that  feed  it. 
'•  Their  first  appearance,"  he  says,  "  well  resembles  the  playful- 
ness of  infancy ;  they  skip  from  side  to  side  with  a  thousand 
antic  motions,  that  answer  no  other  purpose  than  the  mere 
amusement  of  the  proprietor.  They  proceed  for  a  few  hundred 
yards,  and  then  their  severer  labors  begin,  resembling  the  graver 
toils  of  manhood.  They  set  mills  in  motion,  turn  wheels,  and 
ply  hammers  for  manufactures  of  all  kinds;  and  in  this  man- 
ner roll  on  under  the  name  of  the  Stour,  supplying  works  for 
casting,  forging,  and  shaping  iron  for  every  civil  and  military 
purpose.  Perhaps  you  may  not  know  that  my  rills  are  the 
principal  sources  of  this  river;  or  that  it  furnishes  the  propel- 
ling power  to  more  iron-works  than  almost  any  other  single 
nver  in  the  kingdom."  The  dull  mound  now  cuts  ofl'the  sport- 
ive infancy  of  the  Stour  from  its  sorely-tasked  term  of  useful 
rlverhood.  There  is  so  cruel  a  barrier  raised  between  the  twc 
stages,  that  we  fail  to  identify  the  hard-working  stream  below 
with  the  playful  little  runnels  above.  The  water  comes  bound- 
ing all  obscurely  out  of  the  nether  side  of  the  mound,  just  as  it 
begins  its  life  of  toil,  —  a  poor  thing  without  a  pedigree,  like 
some  hapless  child  of  quality  stolen  by  the  gj^psies,  and  sol  J  to 
hard  labor. 

Pr.ssing  upwards  along  the  opposjte  branch  of  the  valley,  i 
16 


I8'i  FIRST    IIMPRESSIONS    OF 

found  a  succession  of  the  same  sort  of  minute  desolations  as  1 
had  met  in  the  branch  already  explored.  Shenstone's  finest 
cascades  lay  in  this  direction  ;  and  very  fine,  judging  from  the 
description  of  Dodsley,  they  must  have  been.  "The  eye  is 
here  presented,"  says  the  poetic  bibliopole,  "  with  a  fairy 
vision,  consisting  of  an  irregular  and  romantic  fall  of  water, 
cnc  hundred  and  fifty  yards  in  continuity;  and  a  very  striking  » 
and  unusual  scene  it  affords.  Other  cascades  may  have  the 
advantage  of  a  greater  descent  and  a  larger  stream  ;  but  a 
more  wild  and  romantic  appearance  of  water,  and  at  the  same 
time  strictly  natural,  is  difficult  to  be  met  with  anywhere.  The 
scene,  though  small,  is  yet  aggrandized  with  so  much  art,  that 
we  forget  the  quantity  of  water  which  flows  through  this  close 
and  overshadowed  valley,  and  are  so  much  pleased  with  the 
intricacy  of  the  scene,  and  the  concealed  height  from  whence 
it  flows,  that  we,  without  reflection,  add  the  idea  of  magnifi- 
cence to  that  of  beauty.  In  short,  it  is  only  upon  reflection 
that  we  find  the  stream  is  not  a  Niagara,  but  rather  a  water- 
fall in  miniature  ;  and  that  by  the  same  artifice  upon  a  larger 
scale,  were  there  large  trees  in  place  of  S)nall  ones,  and  a  river 
instead  of  a  rill,  a  scene  so  formed  would  exceed  the  utmost 
of  our  ideas."  Alas  for  the  beautiful  cascade !  Here  still  was 
the  bosky  valley,  dark  and  solitary,  with  its  long  withdrawing 
bay  from  the  lake  speckled  by  the  broad  leaves  of  the  water^ 
lily;  old  gnarled  stems  of  ivy  wind,  snake-like,  round  the  same 
massy  trunks  along  which  they  had  been  taught  to  climb  in 
the  days  of  the  poet ;  but  for  the  waterfall,  the  main  feature  of 
the  scene,  I  saw  only  a  long  dark  trench,  —  much  crusted  by 
mosses  and  liverworts,  and  much  overhung  by  wood,  —  that 
furrows  the  side  of  the  hill ;  and  for  the  tasteful  root-house, 
erected  to  catch  all  the  beauties  of  the  place,  I  fou  d  only  a 
few  scattered  masses  of  brick,  bound  fast  togetht  r  by   he  integ- 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  183 

nty  of  the  cementing  lime,  and  half-buried  in  a  brown  stratum 
of  decayed  leaves.  A  little  further  on,  there  lay  across  the 
runnel  a  huge  monumental  urn  of  red  sandstone,  with  the 
base  elevated  and  the  neck  depressed.  It  dammed  up  enough 
of  the  little  stream  to  form  a  reservoir  at  which  an  animal 
might  drink,  and  the  clayey  soil  around  it  was  dibbled  thick  at 
the  time  by  the  tiny  hoofs  of  sheep.  The  fallen  urn  had  been 
inscribed  to  the  memory  of  Somerville  the  poet. 

This  southern  fork  of  the  valley  is  considerably  shorter  than 
the  northern  one  ;  and  soon  rising  on  the  hill-side,  I  reached  a 
circular  clump  of  firs,  from  which  the  eye  takes  in  the  larger 
part  of  the  gi'ounds  at  a  glance,  with  much  of  the  surrounding 
country.  We  may  see  the  Wrekin  full  in  front,  at  the  distance 
of  about  thirty  miles  ;  and  here,  in  the  centre  of  the  circular 
clump,  there  stood,  says  Dodsley,  an  octagonal  seat,  with  a 
pedestal-like  elevation  in  the  middle,  that  served  for  a  back, 
and  on  the  top  of  which  there  was  fixed  a  great  punch-bowl, 
Gearing  as  its  appropriate  inscription  the  old  country  toast,  "To 
all  friends  round  the  Wrekin."  Seat  and  bowl  have  long  since 
vanished,  and  we  see  but  the  circular  clump.  At  the  foot  o/ 
the  hill  there  is  a  beautiful  piece  of  water,  narrow  and  long, 
and  skirted  by  willows,  with  both  its  ends  so  hidden  in  wood, 
and  made  to  wind  so  naturally,  that  instead  of  seeming  what 
it  is,  —  merely  a  small  pond,  —  it  seems  one  of  the  reaches 
of  a  fine  river.  We  detect,  too,  the  skill  of  the  poet  in  the 
appearance  presented  from  this  point  by  the  chain  of  lakes  in 
the  opposite  fork  of  the  valley.  As  seen  through  the  carefully 
disposed  trees,  they  are  no  longer  detached  pieces  of  water,  but 
the  reaches  of  a  great  stream,  —  a  sweeping  inflection,  we  may 
suppose,  of  the  same  placid  river  that  we  see  winding  through 
the  willows,  immediately  at  the  hill-foot.  The  Leasowes,  whose 
collected  waters  would  s-arce  turn  a  mill,  exhibit,  from  ihif?  cir 


184  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

cular  clump,  their  fine  river  scenery.  The  background  beyond 
rises  into  a  magnificent  pyramid  of  foliage,  the  apex  of  which 
IS  formed  by  the  tall  hanging  wood  on  the  steep  acclivity,  and 
whic-.h  sweeps  downwards  on  each  side  in  graceful  undulations, 
now  rising,  now  falling,  according  to  the  various  heights  of  the 
trees  or  the  inequalities  of  the  ground.  The  angular  space 
between  the  two  forks  of  the  valley  occupies  the  foreground. 
It  sinks  in  its  descent  towards  the  apex,  —  for  the  pyramid  is 
of  course  an  inverted  one,  —  from  a  scene  of  swelling  accliv- 
ities, fringed  with  a  winding  belt  of  squat,  broad-stemmed 
beeches,  into  a  soft  sloping  lawn,  in  the  centre  of  which, 
deeply  embosomed  in  wood,  rise  the  white  walls  of  the  man- 
sion-house. And  such,  as  they  at  present  exist,  are  the  Lea- 
sowes,  —  the  singularly  ingenious  composition  inscribed  on  an 
English  hill-side,  which  employed  for  twenty  long  years  the 
taste  and  genius  of  Shenstone.  An  eye  accustomed  to  con- 
template nature  merely  in  the  gross,  and  impressed  but  by  vast 
magnitudes  or  by  great  multiplicity,  might  not  find  much  to 
admire  in  at  least  the  more  secluded  scenes, —  in  landscapes  a 
furlong  or  two  in  extent,  and  composed  of  merely  a  few  trees,  a 
few  slopes,  and  a  pond,  or  in  gloomy  little  hollows,  with  inter- 
lacing branches  high  over  head,  and  mossy  runnels  below. 
But  to  one  not  less  accustomed  to  study  the  forms  than  to  feel 
the  magnitudes,  —  who  can  see  spirit  and  genius  in  even  a 
vignette,  beauty  in  the  grouping  of  a  clump,  in  the  sweep  of  a 
knoll,  in  the  convexity  of  a  mossy  bank,  in  the  glitter  of  a 
half-hidden  stream,  or  the  blue  gleam  of  a  solitary  lochan,  — 
one  who  can  appreciate  all  in  nature  that  the  true  landscape- 
painter  admires  and  develops,  —  will  still  find  much  to  engage 
him  amid  the  mingled  woods  and  waters,  sloping  acclivities, 
and  hollow  valleys,  of  the  Leasowes.  I  have  not  yet  seen  a 
3iece  of  grc  and  of  equal   extent  that  exhibits  a  tithe  of  its 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  1^5 

rariety,  or  ir  which  a  few  steps  so  completely  alters  a  scene. 
In  a  walk  of  half  r.  mile  one  might  fill  a  whole  portfolio  with 
sketches,  all  fine  and  all  v^arious. 

It  was  chiefly  in  the  minuter  landscapes  of  the  place  that  1 
missed  the  perished  erections  of  the  poet.  The  want  of  some 
central  point  on  which  the  attention  might  first  concentrate, 
Qni;  then,  as  it  were,  let  itself  gradually  out  on  the  surround- 
ing objects,  served  frequently  to  remind  me  of  one  of  the  poet's 
own  remarks.  "  A  rural  scene  to  me  is  never  perfect,"  he 
says,  ''without  the  addition  of  some  kind  of  building.  I  have, 
however,  known  a  scar  of  rock  in  great  measure  supplying  the 
deficiency."  Has  the  reader  observed  how  unwittingly  Bewick 
seems  to  have  stumbled  on  this  canon,  and  how  very  frequently 
the  scar  of  rock  —  somewhat  a  piece  of  mannerism,  to  be  sure, 
but  always  fine,  and  always  picturesquely  overhung  with 
foliage  —  is  introduced  as  the  great  central  object  into  his 
vignettes  ?  In  nature's,  too,  the  eflfect,  when  chance  embodied 
in  some  recluse  scene,  must  have  been  often  remarked.  I  have 
seen  a  huge  rock-like  boulder,  roughened  by  lichens,  giving 
animation  and  cheerfulness  to  the  wild  solitude  of  a  deep 
forest-clearing ;  and  a  gray  undressed  obelisk,  reared  many 
centuries  ago  over  the  savage  dead,  imparting  pirturesqueness 
and  interest  to  a  brown  sterile  moor. 

With  the  poet's  erections,  every  trace  of  his  le.  ser  ingenu- 
ities has  disaj)peared  from  the  landscape,  —  his  peculiar  art, 
for  instance,  of  distancing  an  object  to  aggrandize  his  space, 
or  in  contriving  that  the  visiter  should  catch  a  picturt,>;que 
glimpse  of  it  just  at  the  point  where  it  looked  best ;  and  that 
then,  losing  sight  of  it,  he  should  draw  near  by  some  hidden 
path,  over  which  the  eye  had  not  previously  travelled.  The 
artist,  with  his  many-hued  pigments  at  command,  makes  oiiy 
•bject  seerh  near  and  another  distant,  by  giving  to  the  one  a 
16* 


186  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

deeper  and  to  the  other  a  fainter  tinge  of  color.  Shenstone, 
with  a  palette  much  less  liberally  furnished,  was  skilful  enough 
to  prcduce  similar  effects  with  his  variously-tinted  shrubs  and 
(rees.  He  made  the  central  object  in  his  vista  some  temple  or 
root-house,  of  a  faint  retiring  color ;  planted  around  it  trees 
of  a  diminutive  size  and  a  "  blancht^d  fady  hue,"  such  as  the 
"almond  willow"  and  "silver  osier;"  then,  after  a  blank 
space,  he  planted  another  group  of  a  deeper  tinge,  —  trees  of 
the  average  hue  of  the  forest,  such  as  the  ash  and  the  elm ; 
and  then,  last  of  all,  m  the  foreground,  after  another  blank 
space,  he  laid  down  trees  of  deep-tinted  foliage,  such  as  the 
dark  glossy  holly,  and  the  still  darker  yew.  To  the  aerial,  too, 
he  added  the  linear  perspective.  He  broadened  his  avenues  in 
the  foreground,  and  narrowed  them  as  they  receded  ;  and  the 
deception  produced  he  describes  —  and  we  may  well  credit 
him,  for  he  was  not  one  of  the  easily  satisfied  —  as  very  re- 
markable. The  distance  seemed  greatly  to  increase,  and  the 
grounds  to  broaden  and  extend.  We  may  judge,  from  the 
nature  of  the  device,  of  the  good  reason  he  had  to  be  mortally 
wroth  with  members  of  the  Lyttelton  family,  when,  as  John- 
son tells  us,  they  used  to  make  a  diversion  in  favor  of  Hagley, 
somewhat  in  danger  of  being  eclipsed  at  the  time,  by  bringing 
their  visiters  to  look  up  his  vistas  from  the  wrong  end.  The 
picture  must  have  been  set  in  a  wofully  false  light,  and  turned 
head-downwards  to  boot,  when  the  distant  willows  waved  in 
the  foreground  beside  the  dimly-tinted  obelisk  or  portico,  and 
the  nearer  yews  and  hollies  rose  stiff,  dark,  and  diminutive, 
in  an  avenue  that  broadened  as  it  receded,  a  half-dozen  bow- 
shots behind  them.  Hogarth's  famous  caricature  on  the  false 
perspective  of  his  contemporary  brethren  of  the  easel  v/ould 
m  such  a  case  be  no  caricature  at  all,  but  a  truthful  represent- 
\t\  )•'  of  one  of  Shenstone's  vistas  viewed  from  the  wrong  end 


ENGLAND    AND     ITS    PEOPLE.  IS7 

Some  of  the  other  arts  of  the  poet,  are,  however,  as  I  have 
already  had  occ.iion  to  remark,  still  very  obvious.  It  was  one 
of  his  oaiioiis,  that  when  *'  an  object  had  been  once  viewed 
from  its  proper  point,  the  foot  should  never  travel  to  it  by  the 
same  path  which  the  eye  had  travelled  over  before."  The 
vifitcr  suddenly  lost  it,  and  then  drew  near  obliquely.  We 
can  still  see  that  all  his  pathways,  in  order  to  accommodate 
themselves  to  this  canon,  were  covered  way.s,  which  winded 
through  thickets  and  hollows.  E\er  and  anon,  whenever  there 
was  augat  of  interest  to  be  seen,  they  emerged  into  the  open 
day,  like  moles  rising  for  a  moment  to  the  light,  and  then 
straightway  again  buried  themselves  from  view.  It  was  another 
of  his  canons,  that  "the  eye  should  alwaj^s  look  down  upon 
water."  "  Customary  nature,"  he  remarks,  "made  the  thing 
a  necessary  re([uisite."  "Nothing,"  it  is  added,  "could  be 
more  sensibly  displeasing  than  the  breadth  of  flat  ground,'" 
which  an  acquaintance,  engaged,  like  the  poet,  though  less 
successfully,  in  making  a  picture-gallery  of  his  property,  had 
placed  "between  his  terrace  and  his  lake."  Now,  in  the  Lea- 
sowes,  wherever  water  is  made  to  enter  into  the  composition 
of  the  landscape,  the  eye  looks  down  upon  it  from  a  command 
ing  elevation,  —  the  \-isiter  never  feels,  as  he  contemplates  it 
that  he  is  in  danger  of  being  carried  away  by  a  flood,  should 
an  embankment  give  way.  It  was  yet  further  one  of  Sheu 
stone's  canons,  that  "  no  mere  slope  from  the  one  s/de  to  the. 
other  can  be  agreeable  ground :  the  eye  requires  a  balance," 
not  iiowe-^r,  of  the  kind  satirized  by  Pope,  in  which 

"  Euch  alley  li.is  its  brother. 
And  half  the  platform  just  reflects  the  other  ;" 

but  the  kina  uf  balance  which  the  higher  order  of  landscape 
painters  ra-ely  fail   to   int'oduce  into  their  works      "  A  build 


18S  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ing,  for  iiiitance,  on  one  side  may  be  made  to  contrast  with  a 
group  of  trees,  a  large  oak,  or  a  rising-  hill,  on  the  other."  And 
in  meet  illustration  of  this  principle,  wc  find  that  all  the  scenes 
of  the  Leas(  ives  are  at  least  well  balanced,  though  most  of 
their  central  points  are  unluckily  away :  the  eye  never  slides 
oflT  the  landscape,  but  cushions  itself  upon  it  with  a  sense  of 
security  and  repose;  and  the  feeling,  even  when  one  fails  to 
trace  it  to  its  origin,  is  agreeable.  "  Whence,"  says  the  poet, 
*  does  this  taste  proceed,  but  from  the  love  we  bear  to  regular- 
ity in  perfection  ?  But,  after  all,  in  regard  to  gardens,  the 
shape  of  the  ground,  the  disposition  of  the  trees,  and  the  figure 
of  the  water,  must  be  sacred  to  nature,  and  no  forms  must  be 
allowed  that  make  a  discovery  of  art." 

England  has  produced  many  greater  poets  than  Shenstone, 
but  she  never  produced  a  greater  landscape-gardener.  In  at 
least  this  department  he  stands  at  the  head  of  his  class,  unap- 
proachable and  apart,  whether  pitted  against  the  men  of  his 
own  generation,  or  those  of  the  three  succeeding  ones.  And 
in  any  province  in  which  mind  must,  be  exerted,  it  is  at  least 
something  to  be  first.  The  estimate  of  Johnson  cannot  fail  to 
be  familiar  to  almost  every  one.  It  is,  however,  so  true  in 
itself,  and  so  exquisitely  characteristic  of  stately  old  Samuel, 
that  I  must  indulge  in  the  quotation.  "  Now  was  excited  his 
[Shenstone's]  delight  in  rural  pleasures,  and  his  ambition  of 
rural  elegance.  He  began  to  point  his  prospects,  to  diversify 
his  surface  to  entangle  his  walks,  and  to  wind  his  waters; 
which  he  d.'d  with  such  judgment  and  such  fancy  as  made  his 
little  domain  the  envy  of  the  great  and  the  admiration  of  the 
skilful,  —  a  place  to  be  visited  by  travellers  and  copied  by 
designers.  Whether  to  plant  a  walk  in  undulating  curves,  and 
to  place  a  bencn  at  every  turn  where  there  is  an  object  to  catch 
ihe  view, —  to  mak3  water  run  where  it  will  be  heard,  and  to 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PKOPl^E.  189 

Stagnate  where  it  will  be  seen,  —  to  leave  intervals  where  the 
eye  will  be  pleased,  and  to  thicken  the  plantation  where  there 
is  something  to  be  hidden,  —  demand  any  great  powers  of 
mind,  I  will  not  inquire  :  perhaps  a  surly  and  sullen  spectator 
may  think  such  performances  rather  the  sport  than  the  business 
of  human  reason.  But  it  must  be  at  least  confessed,  that  to 
embellish  the  form  of  Nature  is  an  innocent  amusement;  and 
some  praise  must  be  allowed,  by  the  most  supercilious  observer, 
to  him  who  does  best  what  such  multitudes  are  contending  to 
do  well." 

But  though  England  had  no  such  landscape-gardener  as 
Shenstone,  it  possessed  denizens  not  a  few  who  thought  more 
highly  of  their  own  taste  than  of  his  ;  and  so  the  history  of  the 
Leasowes,  for  the  ten  years  that  immediately  succeeded  his 
death,  is  a  history  of  laborious  attempts  to  improve  what  he 
had  rendered  perfect.  This  history  we  find  recorded  by  Gold- 
smith in  one  of  his  less  known  essays.  Considerable  allow- 
ance must  be  made  for  the  peculiar  humor  of  the  writer,  and 
its  exaggerative  tendency;  for  no  story,  real  or  imaginary,  ever 
iost  in  the  hands  of  Goldsmith  ;  but  there  is  at  least  an  air  of 
truth  about  its  general  details.  "The  garden,"  he  says,  "was. 
completely  grown  and  finished:  the  marks  of  every  art  were 
covered  up  by  the  luxuriance  of  nature, —  the  winding  walks 
were  grown  dark,  —  the  brooks  assumed  a  natural  selvage, — 
and  the  rocks  were  covered  with  moss.  Nothing  now  remained 
but  to  enjoy  the  beauties  of  the  place,  when  the  poor  poet  died, 
and  his  garden  was  obliged  to  be  sold  for  the  benefit  of  those 
who  had  contributed  to  its  embellishment. 

"  The  ueauties  of  the  place  had  now  for  some  time  been 
celebrated  as  well  in  prose  as  in  verse;  and  all  men  of  taste 
wibhed  for  so  envied  a  spot,  where  every  turn  was  marked 
with   the  poet's   pencil,  and  every  walk  awakened  genius  and 


190  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

medifp.tion.  The  first  purchaser  was  one  Mr.  Truepenny,  a 
button-maker  who  was  possessed  of  three  thousand  pounds, 
and  was  willing  also  to  be  possessed  of  taste  and  genius. 

"  As  the  poet's  ideas  were  for  the  natural  wildness  of  tho 
landscape,  the  button-maker's  were  for  the  more  regular  produc- 
tions of  art.  He  conceived,  perhaps,  that  as  it  is  a  beauty  in  a 
button  to  be  of  a  regular  pattern,  so  the  same  regularity  ought 
to  obtain  in  a  landscape.  Be  that  as  it  will,  he  employed  the 
shears  to  some  purpose ;  he  clipped  up  the  hedges,  cut  down 
the  gloomy  walks,  made  vistas  on  the  stables  and  hog-sties, 
and  showed  his  friends  that  a  man  of  true  taste  should  always 
be  doing. 

"  The  next  candidate  for  taste  and  genius  was  a  captain  of 
a  ship,  who  bought  the  garden  because  the  former  possessor 
could  find  nothing  more  to  mend  ;  but  unfortunately  he  had 
taste  too.  His  great  passion  lay  in  building, —  in  making 
Chinese  temples  and  cage-work  summer-houses.  As  the  place 
before  had  the  appearance  of  retirement,  and  inspired  medita- 
tion, he  gave  it  a  more  peopled  air;  every  turning  presented  a 
cottage  or  icehouse,  or  a  temple ;  the  garden  was  converted  into 
a  little  city,  and  it  only  wanted  inhabitants  to  give  it  the  air 
of  a  village  in  the  East  Indies. 

"  In  this  manner,  in  less  than  ten  years  the  improvement 
has  gone  through  the  hands  of  as  many  proprietors,  who  were 
all  willing  to  have  taste,  and  to  show  their  taste  too.  As  the 
place  had  received  its  best  finishing  from  the  hands  of  the  first 
possessor,  so  every  innovator  only  lent  a  hand  to  do  mischief. 
Those  parts  wa  :h  were  obscure  have  been  enlightened;  those 
walks  which  led  naturally  have  been  twisted  into  serpentine 
vindnigs.  The  color  of  the  flowers  of  the  field  ii  not  more 
rations  than  the  variety  of  tastes  that  have  been  employed 
here,  and  all  in  dire  t  contradiction  to  the  original  aim  of  it^ 


/ 

ENGLAND   AND   ITS    PEOPLE.  191 

first  improver.  Could  the  original  possessor  bit  revive,  with 
what  a  sorrowful  heart  would  he  look  upon  his  favorite  spot 
again  !  He  would  scarcely  recollect  a  dryad  or  a  wood  nymph 
of  his  former  acquaintance;  and  might  perhaps  find  himself  as 
much  a  stranger  in  his  own  plantation  as  in  the  deserts  of 
Sibeiia." 

The  after  history  of  the  Leasowes  is  more  simple.  lime, 
as  certainly  as  taste,  though  much  less  offensively,  had  been 
busy  with  seat  and  temple,  obelisk  and  root-house;  and  it  was 
soon  found  that,  though  the  poet  had  planted,  he  had  not  built, 
for  posterity.  The  ingenious  antiquary  of  Wheatfield  discov- 
ered in  the  parsonage-house  garden  of  his  village,  some  time 
about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  a  temple  of  lath  and  plas- 
ter, which  had  been  erected,  he  held,  by  the  old  Romans,  and 
dedicated  to  Claudius  Coesar;  but  the  lath  and  plaster  of  these 
degenerate  days  do  not  last  quite  so  long.  The  progress  of 
dilapidat'on  was  further  accelerated  by  the  active  habits  of 
occasional  visiters.  Young  men  tried  their  strength  by  setting 
their  shoulders  to  the  obelisks ;  and  old  women  demonstrated 
their  wisdom  by  carrying  home  pieces  of  the  seats  to  their  fires  : 
a  robust  young  fellow  sent  poor  Mr.  Somerville's  urn  a  spin- 
ning down  the  hill ;  a  vigorous  iconoclast  beheaded  the  piping 
fawn  at  a  blow.  There  were  at  first  large  additions  made  to 
the  inscriptions,  of  a  kind  which  Shenstone  could  scarce  have 
anticipated;  but  anon  inscriptions  and  additions  too  began  to 
disappear ;  the  tablet  in  the  dingle  suddenly  failed  to  compli- 
ment Mr.  Spence ;  and  Virgil's  Grove  no  longer  exhibited  the 
name  of  Virgil.  "The  ruinated  Priory  wall"  became  too 
thoroughly  a  ruin;  the  punch-bowl  was  shivered  on  its  stand; 
the  iron  ladle  wrenched  from  beside  the  ferruginous  spring ; 
in  short,  much  about  the  time  when  young  Walter  Scott  was 
gloating  over  Dodsley,  and  wishing  he,  loo,  had  a  property  of 


192  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

'.vhich  to  v-.aLf.  a  plaything,  what  Shenstone  had  built  anil 
inscribed  on  Ine  i-.easowes  could  be  known  but  from  Dodsley 
nlon?.  Hh  artificialities  had  perished,  like  the  artificialities 
of  ano'.r.cv  kind  o^  the  poets  his  contemporaries;  and  nothing 
sui'vi"ed  in  his  more  material  works,  as  in  their  Avritings,  save 
thope  deii&htf'jl  portions  in  which  he  had  but  given  body  and 
eypresf  ion  to  the  harmonies  of  nature. 


ENOLANI)    AND    ITS    PEOrLE.  10' 


CHAPTER    X. 

Shenstone's  Verses.—  The  singular  Unhappiness  of  his  Paradise.  —  Er.g- 
l:*h  Cider.  —Scjtch  and  English  Dwellings  contrasted.  —  The  Nailers 
of  Hales  Owen  ;  their  Politics  a  Century  ago.  —  Competition  of  the 
Scotch  Nailers  ;  unsuccessful,  and  why.  —  Siimuel  Salt,  the  Hales  Owen 
poet.  —  Village  Church.  —  Salt  Works  at  Droitwich  ;  their  great  Anti- 
quity. —  Appearance  of  the  Village.  —  Problem  furnished  by  the  Salt 
Deposits  of  England  ;  various  Theories.  —  Rock  Salt  deemed  by  some  a 
Volcanic  Product;  by  others  the  Deposition  of  an  overcharged  Sea;  by 
yet  others  the  Produce  of  vast  Lagoons.  —  Leland.  —  The  Manufacture 
of  Sail  from  Sea-water  superseded,  even  in  Scotland,  by  the  Rock  Salt 
of  England. 

It  was  now  near  sunset,  and  high  time  that  1  should  be 
leaving  the  Leasowes,  to  "  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn."  By 
the  way,  one  of  the  most  finished  among  Shenstone's  lesser 
pieces  is  a  paraphrase  on  the  apophtliegm  of  old  Sir  John.  We 
find  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  as  e.xhibited  in  the  chronicle  ot  Bos- 
well,  conning  it  over  with  meiUle  glee  in  an  inn  at  Chapel- 
house ;  and  it  was  certainly  no  easy  matter  to  write  vei'se  that 
satisfied  the  doctor. 

•♦  To  thee,  fair  Freedom  !  I  retire, 

From  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din  ; 
Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 
Than  the  low  cot  or  humble  inn. 

*•  'T  is  here  with  boundless  power  I  reign  ; 
And  every  health  which  I  begin 
Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne  ; 
Such  freedom  crowns  it  at  an  iim. 
17 


194  riRsr  impressions  o? 

"  I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate, 

I  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin  ;  -^ 

Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate, 
And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 

*'  Here,  waiter,  take  my  sordid  ore. 

Which  lacqueys  else  might  hope  to  win; 
It  buys  what  courts  have  not  in  store,  — - 
It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  inn. 

"  Whoe'er  has  travelled  life's  dull  round. 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been. 
May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn." 

Ere,  however,  quitting  the  grounds  to  buy  freedom  t  the 
'■'  Plume  of  Feathers,"  1  could  not  avoid  indulging  in  a  nat- 
ural enough  reflection  on  the  unhappiness  of  poor  Shenstone. 
Never,  as  we  may  see  from  his  letters,  was  there  a  man  who 
enjoyed  life  less.  He  was  not  vicious ;  he  had  no  overpower- 
ing passion  to  contend  with ;  he  could  have  had  his  Phillis, 
had  he  chosen  to  take  her;  his  fortune,  nearly  three  hundred 
a-year,  should  have  been  quite  ample  enough,  in  the  reign  of 
George  the  Second,  to  enable  a  single  man  to  live,  and  even, 
with  economy,  to  furnish  a  considerable  surplus  for  making 
gimcracks  in  the  Leasowes ;  he  had  many  amusements,  —  he 
drew  tastefully,  had  a  turn,  he  tells  us,  for  natural  history, 
wrote  elegant  verse  and  very  respectable  prose  ;  the  noble  an-l 
the  gifted  of  the  land  honored  him  with  their  notice  ;  above  all, 
he  lived  in  a  paradise,  the  beauties  of  which  no  man  could 
betttr  appreciate ;  and  his  most  serious  employment,  like  that 
of  our  common  ancestor  in  his  unfallen  state,  was  "  to  dress  and 
to  keep  it.  ^nd  yet,  even  before  he  had  involved  his  affairs, 
and  the  dun  came  to  the  door,  he  was  an  unhappy  man.  "  I 
have  lost  my  road  to  hauoiness,"  we  find  htm  saying  ere  \ie  had 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  195 

completed  his  thirty-fourth  year.  Nay,  we  even  find  him  qa?te 
aware  of  the  turning  at  which  he  had  gone  wrong.  "  Instead,' 
he  adds,  "  of  pursuing  the  way  to  the  fine  lawns  and  venerable 
oaks  which  distinguish  the  region  of  happiness,  I  am  got  into 
the  pitiful  parterre-garden  of  amusement,  and  view  the  nobler 
«cenes  at  a  distance.  I  think  I  can  see  the  road,  too,  that  leads 
the  better  way,  and  can  show  it  to  others ;  but  I  have  got  many 
miles  to  measure  back  before  I  can  get  into  it  myself,  and  no 
kind  of  resolution  to  take  a  single  step.  My  chief  amusements 
at  present  are  the  same  they  havo  long  been,  and  lie  scattered 
about  my  farm.  The  French  have  what  they  call  a  parque 
or'ne.e,  —  I  suppose,  approaching  about  as  near  to  a  garden  as 
the  park  at  Hagley.  I  give  my  place  the  title  of  a  ferme 
ornee."  Still  more  significant  is  the  frightful  confession  em- 
bodied in  the  following  passage,  written  at  a  still  earlier  period  : 
—  "  Every  little  uneasiness  is  sufficient  to  introduce  a  whole 
train  of  melancholy  considerations,  and  to  make  me  utterly 
dissatisfied  with  the  life  1  now  lead,  and  the  life  which  I  foresee 
1  shall  lead.  I  am  angry,  and  envious,  and  dejected,  and 
frantic,  and  disregard  all  present  things,  just  as  becomes  a 
madman  to  do.  I  am  infinitely  pleased,  though  it  is  a  gloomy 
joy,  with  the  application  of  Dr.  Swift's  complaint,  '  that  he  is 
forced  to  die  in  a  rage,  like  a  poisoned  rat  in  a  hole,' "  Amuse- 
ment becomes,  I  am  afraid,  not  very  amusing  when  rendered 
the  exclusive  business  of  one's  life.  All  that  seems  necessary 
m  order  to  render  fallen  Adams  thoroughly  miserable,  is  just 
to  place  them  in  paradises,  and,  debarring  them  serious  occupa- 
tion, to  give  them  full  permission  to  make  themselves  as  happy 
as  they  can.  It  was  more  in  mercy  than  in  wrath  that  the  first 
father  of  the  race,  after  his  nature  had  become  contaminated 
oy  the  fall,  was  driven  out  of  Eden.  Well  would  it  have  been 
for  poor  Shei  ''tone  had  the  angel  of  stern  necessity  driven  him 


196  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

also,  earl}  in  tlie  day,  out  of  his  paradise,  and  sent  him  into  the 
work-day  world  beyond,  to  eat  bread  in  t  le  sweat  of  his  brow. 
i  quitted  the  Leasowes  in  no  degree  saddened  by  the  consider- 
ation that  I  had  been  a  hard-working  man  all  my  life,  from 
boyhood  till  now ;  and  that  the  future,  in  this  respect,  held  out 
to  me  no  brighter  prospect  than  I  had  realized  in  the  past. 

When  passing  through  York,  I  had  picked  up  at  a  stall  a 
good  old  copy  of  the  poems  of  Philips,  —  John,  not  Ambrose ; 
and  in  railway  carriages  and  on  coach-tops  I  had  revived  my 
acquaintance,  broken  off  for  twenty  years,  with  "  Cider,  a 
Poem,"  "Blenheim,"  and  the  "  Splendid  Shilling;"  and  now, 
in  due  improvement  of  the  lessons  of  so  judicious  a  master,  1 
resolved,  when  taking  my  ease  in  the  "  Plume  of  Feathers," 
that,  for  one  evening  at  least,  I  should  drink  only  cider. 

"  Fallacious  drink  !  ye  honest  men,  beware, 
Nor  trust  its  smoothness  ;  the  third  circling  glass 
Suffices  virtue." 

The  cider  of  the  "  Plume  "  was,  however,  scarce  so  potent  as 
that  sung  by  Philips.  I  took  the  third  permitted  glass,  after  a 
dinner  transposed  far  into  the  evening  by  the  explorations  of  the 
day,  without  experiencing  a  very  great  deal  of  the  exhilarating 
feeling  described,  — 

♦*  Or  lightened  heart, 
Dilate  with  fervent  joy,  or  eager  soul. 
Keen  to  pursue  the  sparkling  glass  amain." 

Nor  was  the  temptation  urgent  to  make  up  in  quantity  what 
was  wanting  in  strength  :  "  the  third  circling  glass  sufficed 
virtue."  Here,  as  at  the  inns  in  which  I  had  baited,  both  at 
Durham  and  York,  I  was  struck  by  the  contrast  whi"h  many 
of  the  older  English  dwelling-houses  furnish  to  our  Scotch  ones 
of  the  same  age.    In  Scotland  the  walls  are  of  solid  stone-work. 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  197 

Ihick  and  massy,  with  broad-headed,  champer-edged  rybats,  and 
ponderous  soles  and  lintels,  selvaging  the  opening;  whereas 
the  wood-work  of  t  le  interior  is  almost  always  slight  and 
fragile,  formed  of  spongy  deal  or  moth-hollowed  fir  rafters. 
After  the  lapse  of  little  more  than  a  century,  there  arc  few  of 
our  Scotch  floors  on  which  it  is  particularly  safe  to  tread.  In 
the  older  English  dwellings  we  generally  find  a  reverse  con- 
dition of  things :  the  outsides,  constructed  of  slim  brick-work, 
aave  a  toy-like  fragility  about  them :  whereas  inside  we  find 
strong  oaken  beams,  and  long-enduring  floors  and  stairs  of 
glossy  wainscot.  We  of  course  at  once  recognize  the  great 
scarcity  of  good  building-stone  in  the  one  country,  and  of  well- 
grown  forest-wood  in  the  other,  as  the  original  and  adequate 
cause  of  the  peculiarity.  Their  dwelling-houses  seem  to  have 
had  different  starting  points  ;  those  of  the  one  being  true  lineal 
descendants  of  the  old  Pict's  house,  complete  from  foundation 
to  summit  without  wood,  —  those  of  the  other,  lineal  descend- 
ants of  the  old  forest-dwellings  of  the  Saxon,  formed  ship-like 
in  their  unwieldy  oaken  strength,  v.-ithout  stone.  Wood  to  the 
one  class  was  a  mere  subordinate  accident,  of  late  introduction, 
—  stone  to  the  other;  and  were  I  sent  to  seek  out  the  half-way 
representatives  of  each,  I  would  find  those  of  Englanu  in  its 
ancient  beam-formed  houses  of  the  daj-s  of  Elizabeth,  in  which 
only  angular  interstices  in  the  walls  are  occupied  by  brick,  and 
those  of  Scotland  in  its  time-shattered  fortalices  of  the  type  of 
the  old  castle  of  Craig-house,  in  Ross-shire,  where  lloor  rises 
above  floor  in  solid  masonry,  or  of  the  type  of  Borthwic  V-castle, 
near  Edinburgh,  stone  from  foundation  to  ridge. 

I  spent  some  time  next  morning  in  sauntering  among  the  cros> 

'ancs  of  Hales  Owen,  now  and   then  casting  vague  guesses, 

from  the  appearance  of  the  humbler  houses,  —  for  what  else  lies 

withiu  reach  of  the  passing  traveller?  —  regaiding  the  charac'ei 

17» 


198  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

and  condition  of  the  inmates ;  and  now  and  then  looking  in 
through  open  windows  and  doors  at  the  nailers,  male  and 
female,  engaged  amid  their  intermittent  hammerings  and  fitful 
showers  of  sparks.  As  might  be  anticipated  of  a  profession 
fixed  very  much  down  to  the  corner  of  a  country,  and  so  domes 
tic  in  its  nature,  nail-making  is  hereditary  in  the  families  that 
pursue  it.  The  nailers  of  Hales  Owen  in  the  present  day  are 
the  descendants  of  the  nailers  who,  as  Shenstone  tells  us,  were 
so  intelligent  in  the  cause  of  Hanover  during  the  outburst  of 
1745.  "  The  rebellion,"  he  says,  in  writing  a  friend  just  two 
months  after  the  battle  of  Prestonpans,  "  is,  as  you  may  guess, 
the  subject  of  all  conversation.  Every  individual  nailer  here 
takes  in  a  newspaper,  and  talks  as  familiarly  of  kings  and 
princes  as  ever  Master  Shallow  did  of  John  of  Gaunt." 
Scarcely  a  century  had  gone  by,  .and  I  now  found,  from 
snatches  of  conversation  caught  in  the  passing,  that  the  nailers 
of  Hales  Owen  were  interested  in  the  five  points  of  the  Charter 
and  the  success  of  the  League,  and  thought  much  more  of 
what  they  deemed  their  own  rights,  than  of  the  rights  of  either 
monarchs  de  facto  or  monarchs  de  jure.  There  was  a  nail- 
manufactory  established  about  seventy  years  ago  at  Ci'omarty. 
in  the  north  of  Scotland,  which  reared  not  a  few  Scotch  nailers ; 
but  they  seemed  to  compete  on  unequal  terms  with  those  of 
England ;  and  after  a  protracted  struggle  of  rather  more  than 
half  a  century,  the  weaker  went  to  the  wall,  and  the  Cromarty 
nail-rworks  ceased.  There  is  now  only  a  single  nail-forge  in 
the  town ;  and  this  last  of  the  forges  is  used  for  other  purposes 
than  the  originally  intended  one.  I  found  in  Hales  Owen  the 
^e  key  to  the  failure  of  the  Cromarty  manufactory,  and  saw 
how  it  had  come  to  be  undersold  in  its  own  northern  field  by 
the  nail-merchants  of  Birmingham.  The  Cromarty  nailer 
vrought  alone,  or,  if  a  family  man,  assisted  but  by  his  sons  • 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  199 

whereas  the  Hales  Owen  nailer  had,  with  the  assistap^-^  of  his 
sons,  that  of  his  wife,  daughters,  and  maiden  sisters  tr"  boot ; 
and  so  he  bore  down  the  Scotchman  in  the  contest,  through 
the  aid  lent  him  by  his  female  auxiliaries,  in  the  way  his  blue- 
painted  ancestors,  backed  by  not  only  all  the  fighting  men,  but 
also  all  the  fighting  women  of  the  district,  used  to  bear  down 
the  enemy. 

la  passing  a  small  bookseller's  shop,  in  which  I  had  marked 
on  the  counter  an  array  of  second-hand  books,"!  dropped  in  to 
see  whether  I  might  not  procure  a  cheap  edition  of  Shenstone. 
with  Dodsley's  description,  and  found  a  tidy  little  womai? 
behind  the  counter,  who  would  fain,  if  she  could,  have  suited 
ne  to  my  mind.  But  she  had  no  copy  of  Shenstone,  nor  had 
she  ever  heard  of  Shenstone.  She  well  knew  Samuel  Salt,  the 
Hales  Owen  tee-total  poet,  and  could  sell  me  a  copy  of  his 
works  ;  but  of  the  elder  poet  of  Hales  Owen  she  knew  nothing. 
I  bought  from  her  two  of  Samuel's  broadsheets,  —  the  one  a 
wrathful  satire  on  the  community  of  Odd-Fellows ;  the  other, 
"  A  Poem  on  Drunkenness." 

"  0,  how  silly  is  the  drinker  ! 

Swallowing  what  he  does  not  need  • 
In  the  eyes  of  every  thinker 

He  must  be  a  fool  indeed. 
How  he  liurts  his  constitution  ! 
All  for  want  of  resolution 

Not  to  yield  to  drink  at  first !  " 

Such  is  the  verse  known  within  a  mile  of  the  Locoowes, 
while  that  of  their  poet  is  forgotten.  Alas  for  fame  !  Poor 
Shenstone  could  scarce  have  anticipated  that  the  thin  Castalia 
of  tee-totalism  was  to  break  upon  his  writings,  like  a  mill  dam 
rf'iring  a  thunder-storm,  to  cover  up  all  their  elegances  from 


200  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF 

the  sight  where  they  should  be  best  known,  and  present  insteaa 
but  a  turbid  expai  sc  of  water. 

I  got  access  t^  the  parish  church,  a  fine  old  pile  of  red 
sandstone,  which  dates,  in  some  of  its  more  ancient  portions, 
beyond  the  Norman  conquest.  One  gorgeous  marble,  senti- 
neled by  figures  of  Benevolence,  Fidelity,  and  Major  Halliday, 
all  very  classic  and  fine,  and  which  cost,  as  my  guide  informed 
me,  a  thousand  pounds,  failed  greatly  to  excite  my  interest :  1 
at  least  found  that  a  simple  pedestal  in  front  of  it,  surmounted 
by  a  plain  urn,  impressed  me  more.  The  pedestal  bears  a 
rather  lengthy  inscription,  in  the  earlier  half  of  which  there  is 
a  good  deal  of  verbiage  ;  but  in  the  concluding  half  the  writer 
seems  to  have  said  nearly  what  he  intended  to  say. 


"Reader,  if  genius,  taste  refined. 
A  native  elegance  of  mind,  — 
If  virtue,  science,  manly  sense, 
If  wit  that  never  gave  offence. 
The  clearest  head,  the  tenderest  heart. 
In  thy  esteem  e'er  claimed  a  part,  — 
0  !  smite  tliy  breast,  and  drop  a  tear. 
For  know,  thy  Shenstonc's  dust  lies  here." 

The  Leasowes  engaged  me  for  the  remainder  of  the  day;  and  1 
rigain  walked  over  them  a  few  weeks  later  in  the  season,  when 
ihe  leaf  hung  yellow  on  the  tree,  and  the  films  of  gray  silky 
gossamer  went  sailing  along  the  opener  glades  in  the  clear 
frosty  air.  But  I  have  already  recorded  my  impressions  of  the 
place,  independently  of  date,  as  if  all  formed  at  one  visit.  I 
must  now  take  a  similar  liberty  with  the  chronology  of  my  wend- 
ings  in  another  direction  ;  and,  instead  of  passing  direct  to  the 
Cleat  Hills  in  my  narrative,  as  I  did  in  my  tour,  describe,  first 
9  pcsterior  visit  paid  to  the  brine-springs  at  Droitwich.    I  slia' 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  201 

by  and  by  attempt  imparting  to  the  reader,  from  some  com« 
manding  summit  of  the  Clent  range,  a  few  general  views 
regarding  the  geology  of  the  landscape;  and  by  first  bearing 
me  company  on  my  visit  to  Droitwich,  he  will  be  the  better 
able  to  keep  paca  with  me  in  my  after  survey. 

The  prevailing  geological  system  in  this  part  of  England  is 
(he  Ne-.v  Red  Sandstone,  Upper  and  Lower.  It  stretches  for 
many  miles  around  the  Dudley  coal-basin,  much  in  the  way 
that  the  shires  of  Stirling  and  Dumbarton  stretch  around  the 
waters  of  Loch  Lomond,  or  the  moors  of  Sutherland  or  the 
hills  of  Inverness-shire  encircle  the  waters  of  Loch  Shin  or 
Loch  Ness.  In  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  basin  we 
find  only  the  formations  of  the  lower  division  of  the  system, 
and  these  are  of  comparatively  little  economic  value:  they 
contain,  however,  a  calcareous  conglomerate,  which  represents 
the  magnesian  limestone  of  the  northern  counties,  and  which 
in  a  very  few  localities  is  pure  enough  to  be  wrought  for  ita 
lime  :  they  contain,  too,  several  quarries  of  the  kind  of  soft 
building  sandstone  which  I  found  the  old  stone-mason  engaged 
in  sawing  at  Hagley.  But  while  the  lower  division  of  the  New 
Red  is  thus  unimportant,  its  upper  division  is,  we  find,  not 
greatly  inferior  in  economic  value  to  the  Coal  Measures  them- 
jelves.  It  forms  the  inexhaustible  storehouse  of  our  household 
salt,  —  all  that  we  employ  in  our  fisheries,  in  our  meat-curing 
establishments  for  the  army  and  navy,  in  our  agriculture,  in 
our  soda  manufactories,  —  all  that  fuses  our  glass  and  fertilizes 
our  fields,  imparts  the  detergent  quality  to  our  soap,  and  gives 
us  salt  herrings  and  salt  pork,  and  everything  else  salt  that 
is  the  better  for  being  ^o,  down  to  our  dinner  celery  and  our 
l-reakfast  eggs  ;  it  forms,  in  short,  to  use  a  Scoticntii},  the  great 
mlt-backel  of  the  empirj ;  and  the  hand,  however  irtquently 
thrust  ind )  it,  never  finds  an  empty  corner.    By  p-«"»"^<j  south' 


202  FIRST    IMPRR  SIGNS    OF 

wards,  for  sev^en  or  eight  miles,  the  road  which,  passing  through 
Hales  Owen,  forms  the  principal  street  of  the  village,  we  rise 
from  the  lower  incoherent  marls,  soft  sandstones,  and  calcareous 
conglomerates  of  the  system,  to  the  equally  incoherent  marls, 
and  nearly  equally  soft  sandstones,  of  its  upper  division  ;  and, 
some  five  or  six  miles  further  on,  reach  the  town  of  Droitwich, 
long  famous  for  its  salt  springs.  There  were  salt-works  at 
Droitwich  in  the  times  of  the  Romans,  and  ever  since  the  times 
of  the  Romans.  In  the  age  of  the  Heptarchy,  Kenulph,  King 
of  Mercia,  after  cutting  off  the  hands  and  putting  out  the  eyes 
of  his  brother-king,  Egbert  of  Kent,  squared  his  accounts  with 
Heaven  by  giving  ten  salt-furnaces  in  Droitwich  to  the  church 
of  Worcester.  Poor  Edvvy  of  England,  nearly  two  centuries 
after,  strove,  though  less  successfully,  to  purchase  the  Church's 
sanction  to  his  union  with  his  second  cousin,  the  beautiful 
Elgiva,  by  giving  it  five  salt-furnaces  more.  In  all  probability, 
the  salt  that  seasoned  King  Alfred's  porridge,  when  he  lived 
with  the  neat-herd,  was  supplied  by  the  works  at  Droitwich. 
And  stii-1  the  brine  comes  welling  up,  copious  as  ever.  I  saw 
one  powerful  spring  boiling  amid  the  twilight  gloom  of  its  deep 
pot,  like  a  witch's  cauldron  in  a  cavern,  that  employs  a  steam- 
engine  night  and  day  to  pump  it  to  the  surface,  and  furnishes 
a  thousand  tons  of  salt  weekly.  In  1779,  says  Nashe,  in  his 
History  of  Worcestershire,  the  net  salt  duties  of  the  empire 
imounted  to  about  two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  pounds, 
and  of  that  sum  not  less  than  seventy-five  thousand  pounds 
were  derived  from  the  salt-works  at  Droitwich. 

The  town  lies  low.     Tiere  had  been  much  rain  for  several 

.days  previous  to  that  of    ly  visit,  —  the  surrounding  fields  had 

the  dank  blackened  look  sj  unlovely  in  autumn  to  the  eye  of 

the  farmer,  and  the   roads   and  streets  were   dark  with  mud. 

Mosf  of  the  houses  wore  the  dingy  tints  of  a  remote  and  some- 


EN    LAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  203 

what  neglected  antu,  lity.  Droitvvich  wtis  altogether  as  I  saw 
it,  a  sombre-looking  place,  with  its  gray  old  churc  i  looking 
down  upon  it  from  a  scraggy  wood-covered  hill ;  and  what 
struck  me  as  peculiarly  picturesque  was,  that  from  this  dark 
centre  there  should  be  passing  continually  outwards,  by  road 
or  canal,  wagons,  carts,  track-boats,  barges,  all  laden  with 
pure  white  salt,  that  looked  in  the  piled-up  heaps  like  wreaths 
of  drifted  snow.  There  could  not  be  tvvo  things  more  unlike 
than  the  great  staple  of  the  town,  and  the  town  itself.  There 
hung,  too,  over  the  blackened  roofs,  a  white  volume  of  vapor, 
—  the  steam  of  the  numerous  salt-pans,  driven  off  in  the  course 
of  evaporation  by  the  heat.  —  which  also  strikingly  contrasted 
with  the  general  blackness.  The  place  has  its  two  extensive 
salt-works,  —  the  old  and  the  new.  To  the  new  I  was  denied 
access  ;  but  it  mattered  little,  as  I  got  ready  admittance  to  the 
old.  The  man  who  superintended  the  pumping  engine,  though 
he  knew  me  merely  as  a  curious  traveller  somewhat  mud-be- 
spattered, stopped  the  machine  for  a  few  seconds,  that  I  might 
see  undisturbed  the  brine  boiling  up  from  its  secret  depths  ; 
and  I  was  freely  permitted  to  take  the  round  of  the  premises, 
and  to  examine  the  numerous  vats  in  their  various  stages  of 
evaporation.  It  is  pleasant  to  throw  one's  self,  unknown  and 
unrecommended,  on  the  humanity  of  one's  fellows,  and  to 
receive  kindness  simply  as  a  man ! 

As  I  saw  the  vats  seething  over  the  furnaces,  some  of  them 
more  than  already  half-filled  with  the  precipitated  salt,  and 
bearing  atop  a  stratum  of  yellowish-colored  fluid,  the  grand 
problem  furnished  by  the  saline  deposits  of  this  formation  rose 
before  me  in  all  its  difficulty.  Geology  propounds  many  a 
hard  question  to  its  students,  —  questions  quite  hard  and  diffi- 
cult enough  to  keep  down  their  con  eit,  un.ess,  indeed,  very 
largely  developed  ;  and  few  of  these  seern  more  inexplicable 


204  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

than  thi  problem  "urnished  by  the  salt  deposits.  Here,  now, 
are  these  briny  b  .rings  welling  out  of  this  Upper  New  Red 
Sandstone  of  central  England,  —  springs  whose  waters  were 
employed  in  making  salt  two  thousand  years  ago,  and  which 
still  throw  up  that  mineral  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  tons  apiece 
weekly,  without  sign  of  diminution  in  either  their  volume  or 
their  degree  of  saturation  !  At  Stoke  Prior,  about  three  miles 
to  the  east  of  Droitwich,  a  shaft  of  four  hundred  and  sixty 
feet  has  been  sunk  in  the  Upper  New  Red,  and  four  beds  of 
rock-salt  passed  through,  the  united  thickness  of  which  amount 
to  eighty-five  feet.  Nor  does  this  comprise  the  entire  thick- 
ness, as  the  lower  bed,  though  penetrated  to  the  depth  of  thirty 
feet,  has  not  been  perforated.  In  the  salt-mines  of  Cheshire, 
the  beds  are  of  still  greater  thickness,  —  an  upper  bed  measur- 
ing in  depth  seventy-eight  feet,  and  an  under  bed,  to  which  no 
bottom  has  yet  been  found,  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet.  And 
in  Poland  and  Spain  there  occur  salt  deposits  on  a  larger  scale 
still.  The  saliferous  district  of  Cordova,  for  instance,  has  its 
solid  hills  of  rock-salt,  which  nearly  equal  in  height  and  bulk 
Arthur's  Seat  taken  from  the  level  of  Holyrood  House.  How, 
I  inquired,  beside  the  flat  steaming  cauldrons,  as  I  marked  the 
white  crystals  arranging  their  facets  at  the  bottom,  —  how 
were  these  mighty  deposits  formed  in  the  grand  laboratory  of 
Nature  ?  Formed  they  must  have  been,  in  this  part  of  the 
world,  in  an  era  long  posterior  to  that  of  the  Coal ;  and  in 
Spain,  where  they  belong  to  the  cretaceous  group,  in  an  era 
long  posterior  to  that  of  the  Oolite.  They  are  more  imme- 
diately underlaid  in  England  by  a  sandstone  constituting  the 
base  of  the  Upper  New  Red,  which  is  largely  charged  with 
vegetable  remains  of  a  peculiar  and  well-marked  character; 
Qpd  the  equally  well-marked  flora  of  the  carboniferous  period 
lies  entombed  many  hundred  feet  below.     All  the  rocK-salt  ii» 


ENGLANlJ    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  205 

f,ne  iviiigaom  must  have  been  formed  smce  tie  i-;ore  recent 
vegetation  of  the  Red  Sandstone  lived  and  died,  and  was 
entombed  ami  1  the  smooth  sands  of  some  deep-sea  bottom. 

But  how  formed  ?  Several  antagonist  theories  have  been 
promulgated  in  attempted  resolution  of  the  puzzle.  By  some 
the  salt  has  been  regarded  as  a  volcanic  product  ejected  from 
beneath  ;  by  some,  as  the  precipitate  of  a  deep  ocean  over- 
charged with  saline  matter  ;  by  some,  as  a  deposit  of  salt-water 
lakes  cut  oflf  from  the  main  sea,  like  the  salt  lagoons  of  the 
tropics,  by  surf-raised  spits  or  bars,  and  then  dried  up  by  the 
heat  of  the  sun.  It  seems  fatal  to  the  first  theory,  that  the 
eras  of  Plutonic  disturbance  in  this  part  of  the  kingdom  are 
of  a  date  anterior  to  the  era  of  the  Saliferous  Sandstone.  The 
Clent  Hills  belong  to  the  latest  period  of  trappean  eruption 
traceable  in  the  midland  counties ;  and  they  were  unquestion- 
ably thrown  up,  says  Murchison,  shortly  after  the  close  of  the 
Carboniferous  era,  —  many  ages  ere  the  Saliferous  era  began. 
Besides,  what  evidence  have  we  derived  from  volcanoes,  either 
recent  or  extinct,  that  rock-salt,  in  deposits  so  enormously  huge, 
is  a  volcanic  product  ?  Volcanoes  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
sea  —  and  there  are  but  few  very  active  ones  that  have  not  the 
sea  for  their  neighbor  —  deposit  not  unfrequently  a  crust  of 
salt  on  the  rocks  and  lavas  that  surround  their  craters ;  but  we 
never  hear  of  their  throwing  down  vast  saliferous  beds,  con- 
tinuous for  great  distances,  like  those  of  the  New  Red  Sand- 
stone of  England.  And  further,  even  were  salt  in  such  huge 
quantity  an  unequivocally  volcanic  production,  how  account 
for  its  position  and  arrangement  here  ?  How  account  for  the 
occurrence  of  a  volcanic  product,  spreading  away  in  level  beds 
and  layers  for  nearly  two  hundred  miles,  in  one  of  the  least 
disturbed  of  the  English  formations,  and  fcrming  no  incon- 
siderable por'jon  of  its  strata  ?  As  for  the  second  tbeory,  ii 
13 


206  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF 

seems  exceeding])  difficult  to  conceive  how,  in  an  (pen  seu 
subject,  of  course,  like  all  open  seas,  to  such  equalizing  influ- 
ences as  the  ruffling  of  the  winds  and  the  deeper  stirrings  of  the 
tides,  any  one  tract  of  water  should  become  so  largely  saturated 
as  to  throw  down  portions  of  its  salt,  when  the  surrounding 
tracts,  less  strongly  impregnated,  retained  theirs.  1  have  seeii 
a  tish-curer's  vat  throwing  down  its  salt  when  surcharged  with 
the  mineral,  but  never  any  one  stronger  patch  of  the  brine 
doing  so  ere  the  general  mixture  around  t  had  attained  to  the 
necessary  degree  of  saturation.  And  the  lagoon  theory,  though 
appcfrently  more  tenable  than  any  of  the  others,  seems  scarce 
less  enveloped  in  difficulty.  The  few  inches,  at  most  few  feet, 
of  salt  which  line  the  bottoms  and  sides  of  the  lagoons  of  the 
tropics,  are  but  poor  representatives  of  deposits  of  salt  like 
those  of  the  Upper  Old  Red  of  Cheshire  ;  and  Geology,  as  has 
been  already  indicated,  has  its  deposits  huger  still  Were  one 
of  the  vast  craters  of  the  moon  —  Tycho  or  Copernicus  — to 
be  filled  with  sea-water  to  the  brim,  and  the  fires  of  twenty 
^tnas  to  be  lighted  up  under  it,  we  could  scarce  expect  as  the 
result  a  greater  salt-making  than  that  of  Cordova  or  Cracow. 
A  bed  of  salt  a  hundred  feet  in  thickness  vvould  demand  for  its 
salt-pan  a  lagoon  many  hundred  feet  in  depth ;  and  lagoons 
nany  hundred  feet  in  depth,  in  at  least  the  present  state  of 
things,  are  never  evaporated."* 

*  Dr.  Friedrich  Parrot,  the  Russian  traveller,  gives  a  brief  account,  in 
bis  "Journey  to  Ararat"  (1836),  of  the  salt  lakes  that  now  mark  the 
Bite  of  the  inland  sea  which  seems  to  have  once  occupied  a  large  portion 
Df  the  central  basin  of  Asia.  Their  salt,  however,  though  abundant  and 
valuable  regarded  as  an  ai'ticle  of  traffic  and  a  source  of  revenue,  would 
form,  we  find,  but  an  inconsiderable  geologic  deposit,  —  a  stratum  scarce 
equal  to  the  thinnest  of  the  unworkable  seams  at  Stoke  Prior  or  North- 
wich.  "  At  the  western  extremity  of  the  expansion  of  tlie  riv(  r  Manecli, 
»u  its  northern  shore,"  says  the  traveller,  "  are  a  number  of  salt  lakea. 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  21'"^ 

The  salt-works  at  Droitwich  were  visited,  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  the  Eighth,  by  Leland  the  antiquary.  He  -'asked  a 
Salter,"  he  tells  us,  "  how  many  furnaces  they  had  in  all ;  and 
the  Salter  numbered  them  to  an  eighteen  score,  saying,  that 
every  one  paid  yearly  to  the  king  six  shillings  and  eightpence." 
"  Making  salt,"  the  antiquary  adds,  "  is  a  notable  destruction 
of  wood, —  six  thousand  loads  of  the  young  pole-wood,  easily 
cloven,  being  used  twelvemonthly  ;  and  the  lack  of  wood  is 
now  perceivable  in  all  places  near  the  Wyche,  on  as  far  as 
Worcester."  The  Dudley  coal-field  seems  to  have  been 
broached  just  in  time  to  preserve  to  the  midland  districts  their 
iron  and  salt  trade.  The  complaint  that  the  old  forests  were 
well-nigh  gone  was  becoming  general,  when,  in  1662,  a  Dud- 
'ey  miner  took  out  a  patent  for  smelting  his  ironstone  with  coke 
istead  of  charcoal ;  and  the  iron  trade  of  England  has  been 

tae  largest  of  wliich,  there  called  Grusnoe  Azore,  is  probably  the  same 
that  is  distinguished  iu  our  maps  by  the  name  of  the  new  salt  lake,  and 
is  five  miles  long,  and  two-thirds  of  a  mile  wide.  These  lakes  have  the 
property,  in  common  with  others  of  the  same  kind,  that  during  the  hot- 
test season  of  the  year,  which,  in  these  parts,  is  fron  May  to  the  end  of 
August,  the  surface  of  the  water  becomes  covered  with  a  crust  of  salt 
nearly  an  inch  thick,  which  is  collected  with  shovels  into  boats,  and  piled 
away.  This  is  managed  by  private  individuals,  who  rent  the  privilege 
from  the  government  of  the  Don,  on  condition  of  paying  a  tenth  of  the 
produce.  On  this  occasion  1  was  much  interested  in  being  able  to  prove 
to  my  own  satisfaction,  that  in  such  lakes  it  is  nothing  more  than  the 
rapid  evaporation  from  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  the  consequent  super- 
Baturation  of  the  water  with  salt,  that  etl'ects  the  crystallization  of  the 
latter  ;  for  these  lakes  are  so  shallow  that  the  little  boats  in  which  the 
ealt  is  gathered  are  generally  trailing  on  the  bottom,  and  leave  a  long 
furrow  behind  them  on  it;  so  that  the  lake  is  consequently  to  be  regarded 
as  a  wide  pan  of  enormous  superficial  extent,  in  which  the  brine  can 
easily  reach  the  degree  of  concentration  required  ;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  if  the  summer  prove  cold  or  rainy,  the  superfluous  water  must 
necessarily  militate  agauist  tlie  crystallization  of  the  salt,  or  even  proven! 
it  altogether  " 


208  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

on  the  increase  ever  since.  And  only  a  few  years  later,  the 
salters  of  Droitwich  became  equally  independent  of  the  nearly 
exhausted  forests,  by  lighting  up  their  "  eighteen  score  fur- 
naces "  with  coal.  The  railways  and  canals  of  the  country  have 
•jince  soread  the  rock-salt  of  the  New  Red  Sandstone  over  the 
empire  and  it  is  a  curious  fact,  that  some  of  our  old  estab- 
lished Scotch  saltworks  —  works  so  old  that  they  were  in  ex- 
istence for  centuries  before  the  Scotch  salter  had  ceased  to  be 
a  slave  —  are  now  engaged  in  crystallizing,  not  sea-water,  as 
formerly,  but  rock-salt,  from  the  midland  counties  of  England. 
I  picked  up,  about  a  twelvemonth  ago,  on  a  cart-road  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Prestonpans,  a  fragment  of  rock-salt,  and  then, 
a  few  yards  nearer  the  town,  a  second  fragment ;  and  curious 
to  know  where  the  mineral  could  have  come  from,  in  a  district 
that  has  none  of  its  own,  I  went  direct  to  one  of  the  more 
ancient  salt-works  of  the  place  to  inquire.  But  the  large 
reservoir  of  salt  water  attached  to  the  works  for  supplying  the 
boilers,  and  which  communicates  by  a  pipe  with  the  profounder 
depths  of  the  sea  beyond,  of  itself  revealed  the  secret.  There, 
against  one  of  the  corners,  lay  a  red,  half-m.olten  pile  of  the 
'ock-salt  of  Cheshire;  while  the  enveloping  sea-water  —  of 
oil  the  only  source  of  the  salt  manufactured  in  the  village — • 
3rst'*nted  but  a  nere  auxiliary  source  of  supply,  and  a  .'  ol'/ent 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  209 


CHAPTER    XL 

IValk  .0  the  CIcnl  Hills.  —  Incident  in  a  Fruit  Shop.—  St.  Kenflm's 
Cl.apsl.  —  Legend  of  St.  Kenelm.  —  Ancient  Village  of  Clent ;  its  Ap- 
pearance and  Character.  —  View  from  the  Clent  Hills.  —  Mr.  Thomas 
Moss.  —  Geologic  Peculiarities  of  the  Landscape;  Illustration.  —  The 
Scotch  Drift.  —  Boulders  ;  these  transported  liy  the  Agency  of  Ice  Fioes. 
—  Evidence  of  the  Former  Existence  of  a  hroad  Ocean  Channel.  —The 
Geography  of  the  Geologist.  —  Aspect  of  the  Earth  ever  Changing. — 
Geography  of  the  Palaeozoic  Period  ;  of  the  Secondary  ;  of  the  Ter- 
tiary.—  Ocean  the  great  Agent  of  Change  and  Dilapidation. 

Let  us  now  return  to  Hales  Owen,  and  thence  pass  on  to  the 
Clent  Hills,  —  fanious  resorts,  in  those  parts,  of  many  a  sum- 
mer pic-nic  party  from  the  nearer  villages,  and  of  pale-faced 
artizans  and  over-labored  clerks,  broken  loose  for  a  few  happy 
days  from  the  din  and  smoke  of  the  more  distant  Birmingham. 
I  was  fortunate  in  a  pleasant  day,  —  rather  of  the  warmest  for 
walking  along  the  low,  dusty  roads,  but  sufficiently  cool  and 
breezy  on  the  grassy  slopes  of  the  hills.  A  humble  fruit-shop 
stood  temptingly  open  among  the  naileries  in  the  outer  skirts 
of  Hales  Owen,  and  I  stepped  in  to  purchase  a  few  pears  :  a 
^ixpenceworth  would  have  been  by  no  means  an  overstock  in 
Scotland  to  one  who  had  to  travel  several  miles  up  hill  in  a 
warm  day ;  and  so  I  asked  for  no  less  here.  The  fruitman 
began  to  fill  a  capacious  oaken  measure,  much  like  what,  in 
Scotland,  we  would  term  a  meal  lippy,  and  to  pile  up  the  fruit 
over  it  in  a  heap.  "  How  much  is  that  ? "  I  asked.  —  "  W  ny, 
only  fivepenn'orth,"  replied  the  man ;  "  but  I  '11  give  thee  the 
3ther  penn'orth  arter."  —  "  No,  no,  stop,"  said  I ;  "  give  me  ju.s| 
18* 


210  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS   OF 

the  half  of  flvcpenn'orth  ;  you  are  much  more  liberal  herf  than 
the  fruit-dealers  in  my  country  ;  and  I  find  the  half  will  be 
quite  as  much  as  I  can  manage."  The  incident  reminded  me 
of  the  one  so  good-humoredly  related  by  Franklin.  When 
fresh  from  Boston,  where  food  was  comparatively  high,  he  went 
into  a  baker's  shop  in  Philadelphia  to  purchase  threepence 
worth  of  bread  on  which  to  breakfast,  and  received,  to  his  as- 
tonishment, for  the  money,  three  huge  loaves,  two  of  which  he 
had  to  carry  through  the  streets  stuck  under  his  arms,  while 
satiating  his  hunger  to  the  full  on  the  third. 

When  little  more  than  a  mile  out  of  town,  I  struck  off  the 
high  road  through  a  green  lane,  flanked  on  both  sides  by  ex- 
tensive half-grown  woods,  and  overhung  by  shaggy  hedges,  that 
were  none  the  less  picturesque  from  their  having  been  long 
strangers  to  the  shears,  and  much  enveloped  in  climbing,  berry- 
bearing  plants,  honeysuckles,  brambles,  and  the  woody  night- 
shade. As  the  path  winds  up  the  acclivity,  the  scene  assumes 
an  air  of  neglected  wildness,  not  very  common  in  England : 
the  tangled  thickets  rise  in  irregular  groups  in  the  foreground ; 
and,  closing  in  the  prospect  behind,  I  could  see  through  the 
frequent  openings  the  green  summits  of  the  Clent  Hills,  now 
scarce  half-a-mile  away.  I  was  on  historic  ground,  —  the  "va- 
rious wild,"  according  to  Shenstone,  "  for  Kenelm's  fate  re- 
nowned ;"  and  which,  at  a  still  earlier  period,  had  formed  one 
of  the  battle-fields  on  which  the  naked  Briton  contended  on 
unequal  terms  with  the  mail-enveloped  Roman.  Half-way  up 
the  ascent,  at  a  turning  in  the  lane,  where  the  thicket  opens 
into  a  grassy  glade,  there  stands  a  fine  old  chapel  of  dark  red 
sandstone,  erected  in  the  times  of  the  Heptarchy,  to  mark  the 
locale  of  a  tragedy  characteristic  of  the  time,  —  the  murder  of 
the  boy-king  St.  Kerelm,  at  the  instigation  of  his  sister  Ken- 
drida.     I  spent  some  time   in  tracing  the  half-obliterated  carv* 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  211 

mgs  on  the  squat  Saxon  door-way,  —  by  far  the  most  ancient 
part  of  the  edifice,  —  and  in  straining  hard  to  find  some  approx- 
imation to  the  human  figure  in  the  rude  effigy  of  a  child  sculpt- 
ired  on  the  wall,  with  a  crowTi  on  its  head  and  a  book  in  it? 
hand,  intended,  say  the  antiquaries,  to  represent  the  murdered 
prince,  but  at  present  not  particularly  like  anything.  The 
story  of  Kenelm  we  find  indicated,  rather  than  told,  in  one  of 
Shenstone's  elegies :  — 

"  Fast  by  the  centre  of  yon  various  wild, 

AVhere  spresidiiig  oaks  embower  a  Gothic  fane, 
Kendrida's  aits  a  brother's  youtli  beguiled  ; 

There  Nature  urged  her  tenderest  pleas  in  yain. 
Soft  o'er  his  birth,  and  o'er  his  infant  houi-s. 

The  ambitious  maid  could  every  care  employ; 
And  with  assiduous  fondness  crop  the  flowers, 

To  deck  the  cradle  of  the  princely  boy. 

*'  But  soon  the  bosom's  pleasing  calm  is  flown: 

Love  fires  her  breast;  the  sulti-y  passions  rise; 
A  favored  lover  seeks  the  Mercian  throne. 

And  views  lier  Kenelm  with  a  rival's  eyes. 
See,  garnished  for  the  chase,  the  fraudful  maid 

To  these  lone  hills  direct  his  devious  way  : 
The  youth,  all  pi-one,  the  sister-guide  obeyed; 

Ill-fated  youth  !  himself  the  destined  prey." 

The  minuter  details  of  the  incident,  as  given  by  William  of 
Mdlmesbury  and  Matthew  of  Westminster,  though  admirablj 
fitted  for  the  purpose  of  the  true  ballnd-maker,  are  of  a  kind 
which  would  hardly  have  suited  the  somewhat  lumbrous  dig- 
nity of  Shenstone's  elegiacs.  Poor  Kenelm,  at  the  time  of 
his  djath,  was  but*ine  years  old.  His  murderer,  the  favored 
lovci  of  his  sister,  after  making  all  sure  by  cutting  off  his  head 
with  a  long-bladed  knife,  had  buried  head,  knife,  and  bodjfj 
under  a  bush  '»i  a  "low  pasture"  in  the  forest,  and  the  earth 


212  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OP 

concealed  its  dead.  The  de«jd,  however,  had  scarce  been  per- 
petrated, when  a  white  dove  came  flying  into  old  St.  Peters, 
at  Rome,  a  full  thousand  miles  away,  bearing  a  scroll  in  its 
bill,  and,  dropping  the  scroll  on  the  high  altar,  straightway 
disappeared.  And  on  the  scroll  there  was  found  inscribed  in 
Saxon  characters  the  following  couplet :  — 

"  In  Clent,  in  Caubage,  Kenelm,  kinge-born, 
Lyeth  under  a  thorne,  his  heUe  off  shorue. ' ' 

So  marvellous  an  intimation,  —  miraculous,  among  its  other 
particulars,  in  the  fact,  that  rhyme  of  such  angelic  origir. 
should  be  so  very  bad,  —  though  this  part  of  the  miracle  the 
monks  seem  to  have  missed,  —  was,  of  course,  not  to  be 
slighted.  The  Churchmen  of  Mercia  were  instructed  by  the 
pontiff  to  make  diligent  search  after  the  body*of  the  slain 
prince  ;  and  priests,  monks  and  canons,  with  the  Bishop  of 
Mercia  at  their  head,  proceeded  forthwith  in  long  processior 
to  the  forest.  And  there,  in  what  Milton,  in  telling  the  story 
terms  a  "  mead  of  kine,"  they  found  a  cow  lowing  pitifully 
beside  what  seemed  to  be  a  newly-laid  sod.  The  earlh  was 
removed,  the  body  of  the  murdered  prince  discovered,  the 
bells  of  the  neighboring  churches  straightway  began  "  to 
rongen  a  peale  without  mannes  helpe;"  and  a  beautiful  spring 
of  water,  the  resort  of  many  a  pilgrim  for  full  seven  centuries 
after,  burst  out  of  the  excavated  hollow.  The  chapel  was 
erected  immediately  beside  the  well ;  and  such  Avas  the  odor 
of  sanctity  which  embalmed  the  memory  of  St.  Kenelm,  that 
there  was  no  saint  in  the  calendar  on  whose  day  it  was  more 
unsafe  to  do  anything  useful.  There  is  9  furrow  still  to  be 
iSeen,  scarce  half  a  mile  to  the  north  of  the  chapel,  from  which 
a  team  of  oxen,  kept  impiously  at  work  during  the  festival  of 
ihe  sai  r.  ran  away,  and  were  never  after  heard  of;  and  the 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  213 

owner  lost  not  only  his  cattle,  but,  shortly  after,  his  eyes  tc 
boot.  The  chapel  received  gifts  in  silver,  and  gifts  in  gold, — 
"croun?,"  and  "  ceptrcs,"  and  "  chalysses :  "  there  grew  up 
around  it,  mainly  through  the  resort  of  pilgrims,  a  hamlet, 
which,  in  the  times  of  Edward  the  Fir;t,  contained  a  numer- 
ous population,  and  to  which  Henry  the  Third  granted  an 
annual  fair.  At  length  the  age  of  the  Reformation  arrived; 
Henry  the  Eighth  seized  on  the  gold  and  silver ;  Bishop  Lat- 
imer broke  down  the  well  ;  the  pilgrimages  ceased  ;  the  ham- 
let disappeared;  the  fair,  after  lingering  on  till  the  year  1784, 
disappeared  also;  and  St,  Kenelm's,  save  that  the  ancient 
chapel  still  survived,  became  exactly  such  a  scene  of  wild 
woodland  solitude  as  it  had  been  ere  the  boy-prince  fell  under 
the  knife  of  the  assassin.  The  drama  of  a  thousand  years 
was  over  when,  some  time  about  the  close  of  the  last  century, 
a  few  workmen,  engaged  in  excavating  the  foundations  of  the 
ruined  monastery  of  Winchcomb,  in  which,  according  to  the 
monkish  chroniclers,  the  body  of  the  young  prince  had  been 
interred  near  that  of  his  father,  lighted  on  a  little  stone  coffin, 
beside  a  larger,  which  lay  immediately  under  the  great  eastern 
windov/  of  the  church.  They  raised  the  lid.  There  rested 
within,  a  little  dust,  a  few  fragments  of  the  more  solid  bones, 
a  half-grown  human  skull  tolerably  entire,  and  beside  the 
whole;  and  occupying  half  the  length  of  the  little  coffin,  lay  a 
long-bladed  knife,  converted  into  a  brittle  oxide,  which  fell  in 
pieces  in  the  attempt  to  remove  it.  The  portion  of  the  story 
that  owed  its  existence  to  the  monks  had  passed  into  a  little 
sun-gilt  vapor;  but  hero  was  there  evidence  corroborative  of 
its  truthful  nucleus  surviving  still. 

I  reached  the  nearest  summit  in  the  Clent  range,  and  found 
it  an  oblong  grassy  level,  many  acres  in  extent,  bounded  oo 
the  right  by  i  se  luded  valley  that  opens  among  the  hills. 


214  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

with  a  sma  .  stream  running-  through  it,  The  gicen  slopes 
on  both  sides  of  the  hollow,  A.  half  their  heights,  from  the 
summits  downwards,  retain  all  their  old  irregularities  of  sur- 
face, unscarred  by  plough  or  harrow :  a  few  green  fields,  and  a 
few  picturesque  cottages  environed  by  hedge-rows,  with  an 
old  mill  and  mill-pond,  occupy  the  lovver  declivities  and  the 
bottom  ;  and  just  where  the  valley  opens  into  the  level  coun- 
try we  find  the  little  ancient  village  of  Clent,  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest and  most  characteristic  of  all  old  English  villages.  It 
stands  half  enwrapped  in  tall  wood,  and  half  embraced  by  the 
outstretched  arms  of  the  valley,  with  its  ancient,  time-eaten 
church  rising  in  the  midst,  like  the  central  obelisk  in  a  Druidic 
circle,  and  its  old,  venerable  dwellings  betimbered  with  dark  oak 
and  belatticed  with  lead,  and  much  beshrouded  in  ivy  and  honey- 
suckle, scattered  irregularly  around.  There  were  half-a-dozen 
children  at  play  in  the  grass-grown  street  as  I  passed  ;  and  a 
gentleman,  who  seemed  the  clergyman  of  the  place,  stood  in 
earnest  talk,  at  one  of  the  cottage  doors,  with  an  aged  matron 
in  a  black  gown  and  very  white  cap  ;  but  I  saw  no  other  in- 
habitants, and  scarce  any  mark  of  more  :  no  noisy  workshops 
—  no  stir  of  business,  —  nothing  doing,  or  like  to  be  done 
Clent,  for  the  last  nine  hundred  years,  seems  to  have  had  ? 
wonderfully  easy  life  of  it,  —  an  indolent,  dreamy,  uncaring 
summer-day  sort  of  life.  It  was  much  favored  by  Edwarr 
the  Confessor,  as  a  curious  charter,  exempting  its  inhabitantf' 
from  the  payment  of  tolls  at  fairs,  and  from  serving  as  jurors 
still  survives  to  show ;  and,  regarding  itself  as  a  village  fairly 
provided  for,  it  seems  to  have  thrust  its  hands  into  its  pockets 
at  the  time,  and  to  have  kept  them  there  ever  since.  Its.  wood- 
embosomed  churchyard,  as  might  be  anticipated  from  its  year?, 
sejms  vastly  more  populous  than  its  cottages.  According  to 
t )  3  practice  of  this  part  of  the  country,  the  newer  tombstones 


ENGLAND    ^iND    ITS    PEOPLE.  215 

ore  all  in  deep  black,  and  the  lettering  in  gold  ;  tne  stcnes  rise 
thick  around  the  gray  old  church,  half-concealing  the  sward ; 
and  the  sun,  gleaming  partially  through  openings  in  the  tall 
trees,  that  run  hedge-like  round  the  whole,  glistens  here  and 
there  with  a  very  agreeable  effect  on  the  bright  letters.  It 
would  seem  as  if  the  tomb,  less  gloomy  here  than  elsewhere, 
was  smiling  in  hope,  amid  the  general  quiet.  I  had  come 
down  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  valley  to  visit  the  village, 
which  I  now  quitted  by  ascending  the  hill  on  the  right,  through 
long  hollow  lanes,  rich  in  blackberries  and  ivy,  and  over  which 
-ged  trees  shoot  out  their  gnarled  branches,  roughly  bearded 
*vith  moss.  The  hill-top  I  found  occupied,  like  that  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley,  by  an  uneven  plain,  covere  J  by  a  short 
sward,  and  thinly  mottled  with  sheep ;  and  all  around  to  the 
dim  horizon  lay,  spread  out  as  in  a  map,  the  central  districts 
of  England. 

One  half  the  prospect  from  this  hill-top  is  identically  that 
which  Thomson  described  from  the  eminence  over  Hagley. 
There  stretches  away  along  the  horizon  a  blue  line  of  hills, 
from  the  Wrekin  and  the  Welsh  mountains  on  the  north,  to 
the  steep  Malverns  and  the  hills  that  surround  Worcester  on 
the  south.  The  other  half  of  the  prospect  embraces  the  iron 
and  coal  districts,  with  their  many  towns  and  villages,  their 
smelting  furnaces,  forges,  steam-engines,  tall  chimneys,  and 
pit-fires  innumerable  ;  and  beyond  the  whole  lies  the  huge 
Birmingham,  that  covers  its  four  square  miles  of  surface  with 
brick.  No  day,  however  bright  and  clear,  gives  a  distinci 
landscape  in  this  direction  ;  all  is  dingy  and  dark  ;  the  iron 
furnaces  vomit  smoke  night  and  noon,  Sabbath-day  and  week- 
day ;  and  the  thick  reek  rises  ceaselessly  to  heaven,  league  be- 
yond league,  like  the  sulphurous  cloud  of  some  never-ending 
battle.     The  local  antiquary  can  point  out,  amid  the  1  aze,  » 


216  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OK 

few  scenes  of  historic  and  literary  interest.  Yonder  church, 
due  north,  in  the  middle  distance,  that  seems  to  lead  so  un- 
quiet and  gloomy  a  life  among  the  furnaces, —  a  true  type  of 
the  Church  militant,  —  had  for  its  minister,  many  years  ago, 
one  Mr.  Thomas  Moss,  who  wrote,  amid  the  smoke,  a  little 
poem  known  to  every  English  reader,  —  "  The  Beggar's  Peti- 
tion." In  an  opposite  direction  there  may  be  seen,  when  tlie 
sun  shines,  an  old  building,  in  which  the  conspirator  Garnet, 
whose  head  wrought  miracles  on  the  straw  amid  which  it  was 
cast,*  and  several  of  the  other  Gunpowder  Plot  conspirators, 
secreted  themselves  for  many  days  in  a  cavity  in  the  wall.  1 
have  already  referred  to  the  scene  of  the  old  British  battle,  and 
of  the  assassination  of  St.  Kenelm,  both  full  in  view;  and  to 
the  literary  recollections  that  linger  around  Hagley  and  the 
Leasowes,  both  full  in  view  also.  But  the  prospect  is  associ- 
ated with  an  immensely  more  ancient  history  than  that  of  the 

*  Tlie  miracle  of  the  straw  seems  to  have  been  considerably  less  remark- 
able than  the  belief  in  it.  A  young  Jesuit-presumptive,  attached  to  his 
reverend  brother  the  "  Martyr  Garnet,"  had  possessed  himself,  by  way 
of  relic,  of  one  of  the  bloody  ears  of  straw,  stained  by  contact  with  the 
gory  head,  and  stored  it  up  in  a  bottle.  Looking  at  it  shortly  after,  he 
saw  througli  the  glass,  on  one  of  the  chaflt"  sheathes,  the  miniature  sem- 
blance of  a  human  liead  surrovinded  by  a  glory,  and  called  on  several  of 
his  co-rcligionists  to  admire  the  miracle.  It  was,  however,  unsafe  in 
those  days  for  .Jesuits  to  work  miracles  in  England.  Tidings  of  the  prod- 
igy got  abroad  ;  law  proceedings  were  instituted  at  the  instance  of  the 
Privy  Council  ;  and  though  straw,  bottle  and  Jesuit,  had  prudently  dis- 
appeared, witnesses  were  cited  to  give  evidence  in  court  regarding  it , 
among  the^rest,  a  painter  named  Bowen.  And  the  painter's  testimony 
was  very  amusing,  and  much  to  the  point.  He  had  seen  the  miniature 
head  on  the  straw,  he  said  ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that ;  but  then  lie 
had  quite  as  little  doubt  that  he  could  make  as  good,  or  even  a  better 
head,  on  an  ear  of  straw,  himself.  And  such  was  the  miracle  on  the 
faith  of  Avhich  it  was  held  that  either  Garnet  was  innocent  of  the  Gun- 
powder Plot,  or  the  Gunpowder  Plot  laudable  in  itseli 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  217 

Jnys  of  the  Koinans  or  oi  the  lleplarchy,  ami  with  a  literature 
considerably  more  modern  than  that  of  Lord  Lyttelton  or  Mr. 
Moss ;  and  it  is  on  this  more  ancient  history,  as  recorded  in 
this  more  modern  literature,  that  I  shall  attempt  fixing  the 
attention  of  the  reader.  When  Signor  Sarti  exhibits  his  ana- 
tomical models,  he  takes' up  one  cover  after  another, —  first  the 
skill,  then  the  muscles,  then  the  viscera,  then  the  greater 
Hood-vessels  and  deeper  nerves,  —  until  at  length  the  skeleton 
.is  laid  bare.  Let  us,  in  the  same  way,  strip  the  vast  landscape 
here  of  its  upper  integuments,  coat  after  coat,  beginning  first 
with  the  vegetable  mould,  —  the  scarf-skin  of  the  country, — 
wherein  its  beauty  lies,  with  all  its  fields  and  nedge-rows, 
houses  and  trees;  and  proceed  downwards,  cover  after  cover, 
venturing  a  few  remarks  on  the  anatomy  of  each  covering  as 
we  go,  till  we  reach  those  profound  depths  which  carry  within 
their  blank  folds  no  record  of  their  origin  or  history. 

The  vegetable  mould  is  stripped  away,  with  all  its  living 
inhabitants,  animal  and  vegetable;  man  himself  has  disap- 
peared, with  all  that  man  has  built  or  dug,  erected  or  excavat- 
ed ;  and  the  vast  panorama,  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  presents 
but  a  dreary  wilderness  of  diluvial  clays  and  gravels,  with  here 
a  bare  rock  sticking  through,  and  there  a  scattered  group  of 
boulders.  Now  mark  a  curious  fact.  The  lower  clays  and 
gravels  in  this  desert  are  chiefly  of  local  origin  ;  they  are 
formed  mainly  of  the  rock  on  which  they  rest.  These  quartz 
pebbles,  for  instance,  so  extensively  used  in  this  part  of  the 
country  m  causewaying  footways,  were  swept  out  of  the  mag- 
ncsian  conglomerate  of  the  Lower  New  Red;  these  stiff  clays 
are  but  re- formations  of  the  saliferous  marls  of  the  Upper 
Red ;  these  darkened  gravels  are  derived  from  the  neighbor- 
ing coal-field  ;  and  yonder  gray,  mud-colored  stratum,  mixed 
up  with  fragments  of  limestone,  is  a  deposit  from  the  ralliel 
19 


218  FIRST    rMPRESSIONS    OF 

more  distant  Siluri.ins.  But  not  sur.h  the  charfictpr  of  the 
widely-spread  upper  stratum,  with  its  huge  granitic  boulders. 
We  may  see  within  the  range  of  the  landscape  whence  all  the 
lower  beds  have  come  from  ;  but  no  powers  ot  vision  could 
enable  us  to  descry  whence  the  granitic  boulders  and  graveb 
have  come  from.  Strange  as  the  circumstance  may  seem, 
they  are  chiefly  Scotch, —  travellers,  in  the  remote  past,  from 
the  granitic  rocks  of  Dumfries  ind  Kirkcudbright.  They  lie 
amid  sea-shells  of  the  existing  species,  —  the  common  oyster, 
the  edible  cockle  and  periwinkle,  island-cyprina,  rock-whelk 
[purpura  lapilbis),  and  a  host  of  others  of  the  kind  we  may 
any  day  pick  on  our  shores.  Now  mark  the  story  which 
they  tell.  This  region  of  central  England  was  once  a  broad 
ocean  sound,  that  ran  nearly  parallel  to  St.  George's  Channel ; 
there  rose  land  on  both  sides  of  it:  Wales  had  got  its  head 
above  water;  so  had  the  Cotteswold  Hills  in  Gloucestershire; 
and  not  a  particle  of  the  Scotch  drift  is  to  be  found  on  either 
side,  where  the  ancient  land  lay.  But  the  drift  marks  the 
entire  course  of  the  central  channel,  lying  thick  in  Lancashire, 
Cheshire,  Staffordshire,  and  Worcestershire,  in  some  localities 
to  the  depth  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet.  And  in  its  present 
elevation  it  averages  in  its  course  from  fifty  to  five  hundred 
feet  over  the  existing  sea.  This  ancient  sound  seems  to  have 
narrowed  towards  the  south,  where  it  joined  on  to  the  Bristol 
Channel ;  but  such  was  its  breadth  where  we  now  stand,  that 
the  eye  would  have  failed  to  discover  the  eastern  shore.  Its 
waves  beat  against  the  Malverns  on  the  one  side,  and  the  Cot- 
teswold Hills  on  the  other;  it  rose  high  along  the  flanks  of  the 
Wrekin ;  the  secluded  dells  of  Hagley  were  but  the  recesses  of 
a  submarine  rock,  shaggy  with  seaweed,  that  occupied  its  cen- 
tral tide-way;  while  the  Sevc-.rn,  exclusively  a  river  if  Walea 
in  those  days,  emptied  its  waters  into  the  sea  at  the  Breidden 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  219 

Hills  in  Montgomeryshire,  a  full  hundred  miles  from  where  it 
now  falls  into  the  Bristol  Channel.  Along  this  broad  sound, 
every  spring,  when  the  northern  ice  began  to  break  up,  —  for  its 
era  was  that  of  the  British  glacier  and  iceberg,  —  huge  ice-floes 
came  drifting  in  shoals  from  the  Scottish  coast,  loaded  under- 
neath with  the  granitic  blocks  which  they  had  enveloped  when 
forming  in  friths  and  estuaries ;  and,  as  they  floated  along,  the 
loosened  boulders  dropped  on  the  sea-bottom  beneath.  Here  lie 
scores  in  the  comparatively  still  water,  and  there  lie  hundreds 
where  the  conflicting  tides  dashed  fierce  and  strong.  "  In  the 
tract  extending  from  the  hamlet  of  Trescot  to  the  village  of 
Trysull,  in  the  south-western  parts  of  Staffordshire,"  says  Sii 
Roderick  Murchison,  "  the  quantity,  and  occasionally  gigantic 
dimensions,  of  these  northern  boulders  (several  tons  in  weight,' 
may  well  excite  surprise,  seeing  that  they  there  occupy  one  of 
the  most  central  districts  of  England.  Here  the  farmer  is' 
incessantly  laboring  to  clear  the  soil,  either  by  burying  them 
or  by  piling  them  up  into  walls  or  hedge-banks;  and  his  toil 
like  that  of  Sisyphus,  seems  interminable;  for  in  many  spot; 
new  crops  of  them,  as  it  were,  appear  as  fast  as  the  surface  ia 
relieved  from  its  sterilizing  burden.  So  great,  indeed,  is  theii 
abundance,  that  an  observer  unacquainted  with  the  regioh 
would  feel  persuaded  he  was  approaching  the  foot  of  some  vas\ 
granitic  ninge  ;  and  yet  the  source  of  their  origin  is  one  hun 
ilred  and  fifty  miles  distant." 

There  are  few  things  that  speak  more  powerfully  to  the 
i:T!agination  of  the  geologist  than  the  geography  of  his  science 
It  seems  natural  to  man  to  identify  the  solid  globe  which  he 
inhabits  b}-  its  great  external  features,  particularly  by  its  pecu 
liar  arrangement  of  continent  and  ocean.  We  at  once  recog- 
nize it  in  the  prints  of  our  popular  astronomical  treatises,  aa 
«ecn  from  the  moon,  or  through  the  telescope  from  some  of  ihe 


220  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

more  dista  .t  planet?,  by  the  well-known  disposition  of  its  land 
and  water;  and  were  that  disposition  made  greatly  different  m 
the  representation,  we  would  at  once  fail  to  regard  it  as  the 
earth  on  which  we  ourselves  reside.  It  might  be  some  of  the 
other  planets,  we  would  say,  but  not  ours.  And  yet  these 
great  features  are  exceedingly  evanescent,  compared  with  the 
enduring  globe  w'hich  they  diversify  and  individualize, —  mere 
changing  mist-wreaths  on  the  surface  of  an  unchanging  firma- 
ment. The  up-piled  'louds  of  one  sunset,  all  gorgeous  with 
their  tints  of  bronze  and  fire,  are  not  more  diverse,  in  place, 
arrangement  and  outline,  from  the  streaked  and  mottled  cloud- 
lets of  another,  radiant  in  their  hues  of  gold  and  amber,  than 
the  lands  and  oceans  of  any  one  great  geologic  system,  from 
the  lands  and  oceans  of  the  system  that  had  preceded  or  come 
after  it.  Every  geologic  era  has  had  a  geography  of  its  own. 
The  earth,  like  a  child's  toy,  that  exhibits  a  dozen  different 
countenances  peeping  out  in  succession  from  under  the  same 
hood,  has  presented  with  every  revolution  a  new  face.  The 
highest  lands  of  Asia  and  continental  Europe  formed  ocean- 
beds  in  the  times  of  the  Oolite  :  the  highest  lands  of  our  own 
^•.ountry  were  swam  over  by  the  fish  of  the  Old  Red  Sandstone. 
There  is  much  to  exercise  the  imagination  in  facts  such  as 
these,  whether  one  views  in  fancy  the  planet  as  a  whole,  ever 
changing  its  aspect  amid  the  heavens,  or  calls  up  more  in 
detail  the  apparition  of  vanished  states  of  things  amid  existing 
scenes  of  a  character  altogether  diverse, —  buried  continents, 
for  instanci.,  on  the  blue  open  sea,  or  long  evanished  oceans 
far  inland,  amid  great  forests  and  mighty  hills.  I  can  well 
understand  the  feeling  experienced  by  Dr.  Friedrich  Parrot,  as 
he  travelled  day  after  day  in  his  journey  to  Ararat  along  the 
lat  banks  of  ;he  Manech,  and  saw  in  the  salt  marshes  and 
biiue  lakes  of  th"?  district  irrefragable  evidence  that  a  great 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  221 

inhnrl  sea,  of  which  (he  Caspian  and  (he  Sea  of  Aral  are  but 
minute  fragnents,  —  mere  detached  pools,  left  amid  the  gen- 
eral ebb,  —  had  once  occupied  that  vast  central  basin  of  Asia 
into  which  (he  Volga  and  the  Oxus  fall.  He  was  ever  realiz- 
ing to  himself — and  deriving  much  quiet  enjoyment  from  (he 
process  —  a  (ime  when  a  sea  withou(  visible  shore  occupied, 
league  beyond  league,  (he  surrounding  landscape,  and  pic(uring 
in  'ancy  (he  green  gleam  of  (he  waves,  in(erposed,  cloud-like, 
be(ween  him  and  (he  sun.  Very  similar  must  be  the  feelings 
of  the  voyager  on  the  great  Pacific.  We  find  trace  in  this 
ocean  of  a  sinking  continent,  —  a  continent  once  of  greater  area 
than  all  Europe,  —  in  the  act  of  foundering,  with  but  merely 
its  mast-heads  above  the  water.  Great  coral  reefs  that  whiten 
the  green  depths  league  after  league  and  degree  after  degree, 
for  hundreds  and  thousands  of  miles,  with  here  and  there  a  (all 
moun(ain-peak  existing  as  a  surf-engirdled  island,  are  all  (ha( 
remain  to  show  where  a  "  wide  continent  bloomed,"  that  had 
existed  as  such  myriads  of  ages  after  the  true  geologic  Atlantis 
had  been  engulfed. 

It  seems  more  than  questionable  whether  we  shall  ever 
arrive  at  a  knowledge  approximating  to  correct,  regarding  (he 
disttibudon  of  ocean  and  continent  in  (he  earlier,  or  even  sec- 
ondary geologic  formations.  The  Silurian  and  Old  Red  Sand- 
stone systems  give  but  few  indications  of  land  at  all.  and  cei 
tainly  no  indications  whatever  of  its  place  or  extent.  Tht, 
Coal  Measures,  on  the  other  hand,  puzzle  with  the  multiplicity 
of  their  alternations  of  land  and  water, -~  in  some  instances, 
of  sea  and  land.  We  know  little  more  than  that  an  ocean- 
deposit  forms  very  generally  the  base  of  the  system,  and  that 
(he  deep  bottom  occupied  by  the  sea  came  afterwards  to  be  a 
platform,  on  which  great  forests  sprang  up  and  decayed  ;  and 
that  amid  (he  broken  s(umps  of  (hese  forests,  when  again  sub- 
19* 


222  FlhST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

merged,  the  Iloloptychius  and  Megalichthys  disported.  The 
same  sort  of  obscurity  hangs  over  the  geography  of  the  New 
Ked  Sandstone  :  we  but  know  that  land  and  water  there  were, 
from  finding,  wrapped  up  in  the  strata,  the  plants  and  reptiles 
of  the  one,  and  the  fish  and  shells  of  the  other.  A  few  insu- 
lated facts  dawn  upon  us  in  the  Oolite.  We  ascertain  that  the 
Jurasic  Alps  formed  in  those  early  times  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 

—  nay,  that  the  cuttle-fish  discharged  its  ink,  and  the  ammon- 
ite reared  its  sail,  over  the  side  of  the  gigantic  Himalaya 
•ange ;  whereas,  from  the  disposition  of  the  Oolitic  patches  on 
joth  the  eastern  and  western  coasts  of  Scotland,  it  seems  at 
'east  probable  that  in  that  remote  period  this  ancient  country, 

—  "  Old  Scotland,"  —  had  got  its  head  and  shoulders  above 
water.  From  the  Weald  we  merely  learn  that  a  great  river 
entered  the  sea  somewhere  near  what  now  forms  the  south  of 
England  or  north  of  France,  —  a  river  which  drained  the 
waters  of  some  extensive  continent,  that  occupied,  it  is  proba- 
ble, no  small  portion  of  the  space  now  covered  up  by  the  Atlan- 
tic. It  is  not  at  all  impossible  that  the  long  trails  of  sea-weed, 
many  fathoms  in  length,  which  undulate  in  mid  ocean  to  the 
impulses  of  the  Gulf  Stream,  and  darken  the  water  over  an  area 
hundreds  of  miles  in  extent,  are  anchored  beneath,  to  what 
once  formed  the  Rocky  Mountains  of  this  submerged  America. 
The  Cretaceous  system,  as  becomes  its  more  modern  origin, 
tells  a  somewhat  more  distinct  story.  It  formed  the  bed  of  a 
great  ocean,  which  extended  from  central  England  to  at  least 
the  shores  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  included  within  its  area  consid- 
erable portions  of  France,  Spain,  Italy,  Dalmatia,  Albania,  and 
the  Mnrca,  —  a  considerable  part  of  Syria,  as  indicated  in  the 
ichthyolitic  strata  of  Lebanon,  —  and  large  tracts  of  the  great 
»^alley  of  Egypt,  as  shown  by  the  numniulitic  limestone  of  the 
Dyrariids.       B\it   the   geography    of    these    older   formations, 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PKOFLE.  223 

flrhcther  Pi..8e(  zoic  or  Secondary,  cannot  be  other  than  imper- 
fect. Any  one  system,  as  shown  on  the  geologic  map,  is  but  a 
thing  of  shreds  and  patches.  Here  it  occurs  as  a  continuous 
belt,  —  there  as  a  detached  basin,  —  yonder  as  an  insulated 
outlier;  and  it  is  only  on  these  shreds  and  patches  that  the 
geography  o'"  each  system  can  be  traced,  when  we  can  trace  it 
at  all.  Tne  field  of  the  map  in  each  instance  resembles  one 
of  those  dilapidated  frescoes  of  Pompeii,  in  which  by  much  the 
greater  part  of  the  plaster  has  i"allen  from  the  wall,  and  we  can 
trace  but  broken  fragments  of  the  picture  on  the  detached  bits 
that  remain.  The  geologic  geographer  finds  himself  in  the  cir- 
.umstances  of  the  cod-f:^hing  skipper,  who,  in  going  one  day, 
when  crossing  the  Atlantic,  to  consult  his  charts,  found  them 
reduced  to  detached  tatters,  and  came  on  deck  in  a  paroxysm 
of  consternation,  to  tell  his  crew  that  they  might  put  about 
ship  when  they  pleased,  for  the  rats  had  eaten  Newfoundland. 
With  the  dawn  of  the  Tertiary  ages  the  fragments  greatly 
extend,  and  tolerably  adequate  notions  of  the  arrangements  of 
land  and  water  over  wide  areas  may  be  formed. "*     The  reader 

*Oue  of  the  most  ingenious  pieces  of  geologic  geography  to  be  any- 
where met  with  in  the  literature  of  the  science,  may  be  found  in  Mr. 
Charles  Maclaren's  well-known  "  Sketch  of  the  Geology  of  Fife  and  the 
Lothians."  It  occurs  as  part  of  a  theory-  of  the  diluvial  phenomena  of 
"  Crag  and  Tail,"  and  appeals  with  equal  effect  to  the  reason  and  imag- 
illation  of  the  reader.  "  If  there  has  been  a  good  deal  of  denudation  on 
(he  east  side  of  Scotland,"  says  Mr.  Maclareii,  "there  has  been  much 
more  on  the  west.  The  absence  of  sand-banks  on  the  west  coast  ;  the 
greater  depth  of  the  ocean  there  ;  the  numerous  and  profound  indenta- 
tions of  the  land,  in  the  shape  of  br.^-s,  estuaries,  and  lakes  ;  the  rocky 
islands,  which  had  once  been  parts  of  the  mainland  ;  tlie  removal  of  so 
large  a  part  of  the  red  sai.dstone  of  Ross  and  Sutherland,  which  had  once 
coveied  a  hundred  miles  of  the  western  coast  to  the  depth  of  two  or  three 
thousand  feet,  and  is  now  reduced  to  a  few  isolated  cones,  —  all  these 
facts,  with  the  familiar  examples  of  Crag  and  Tail,  indicate  that  the  sur- 
•ice  of  Scotland  has  been  I  wept  by  powerful  denuding  currents  coming 


224  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

must  have  seen  Lyell  s  map  of  Europe,  as  Europe  existed  in 
the  Eocene  peri/xl,  —  a  map  constructed  mainly  on  the  geologic 
data  of  M.  A.  Boie.     The  land  which   it  exhibits  exists  as 

from  the  west.  The  west  coast  of  England  and  IreUand  also  exhibita  deep 
indentations,  in  high  rocky  land.  We  find  the  same  appearances  in  a  less 
marked  degree  on  the  coast  of  Normandy  and  Brittany  in  France,  and 
on  a  still  smaller  scale  upon  the  west  coasts  of  Spain  and  Portugal.  The 
west  coast  of  Norway  is  one  long  line  of  islands,  promontories,  and  deep 
fiords,  —  showing  that  the  primary  rocks,  in  spite  of  their  hardness, 
have  been  breached  in  a  thousand  places  by  powefful  currents.  The 
western  coasts  of  Denmark,  Holland  and  Belgium,  having  the  British 
Isles  before  them  as  a  breakwater,  have  few  indentations,  except  where 
laid  open  by  the  rivers.  An  ett'ect  so  general  sliould  have  a  general 
cause,  and  perhaps  physical  geograpliy  may  afford  a  clue  to  it.  If  the 
land  rose  in  detached  portions,  and  by  successive  lifts,  from  the  sea,  we 
may  suppose  that  there  was  a  time  when  the  surface  of  the  globe  consisted 
of  a  great  expanse  of  ocean  studded  with  islands.  Such  Adolphe  Brongn- 
iart  supposes  its  condition  to  have  been,  at  least  in  Europe,  when  the 
Coal  Measures  were  deposited.  In  this  state  of  things  there  would  be 
three  great  and  constant  currents,  —  one  within  the  tropics,  running 
•westward  ;  and  tAvo  running  eastward  between  the  tropics  and  the  poles. 
Tlie  trade-winds  in  the  torrid  zone,  and  the  prevailing  westerly  winds  in 
the  extra-tropical  regions,  would  alone  account  for  these  currents.  But 
to  these  causes  must  be  added  the  southward  course  of  an  under-current, 
from  the  pole,  of  cold  water,  with  a  low  velocity  of  revolution,  and  the 
northward  course  of  an  upper  current,  from  the  equator,  of  warm  water, 
with  a  high  velocity  of  revolution.  The  first  would  become  a  westerly 
current  when  it  reached  the  tropics,  and  the  second  an  easterly  cur- 
rent when  it  reached  the  temperate  zone.  Such  would  be  the  state  of 
an  open  ocean  from  the  equator  to  the  north  pole  ;  and,  mutatis  mutandis, 
the  same  description  applies  to  the  southern  hemisphere.  All  the  three 
currents,  in  truth,  exist  at  this  day,  but  enfeebled  and  metamorphosed 
by  the  transverse  position  of  the  two  great  continents.  Now,  if  these  cur- 
rents were  acting  permanently,  and  with  the  force  which  they  would  have 
if  little  obstructed,  their  operation,  when  tracts  of  land  rose  above  the 
sea,  would  be  thus  :  —  They  would  form  deep  indentations  on  the  east  side 
of  intertropical,  and  on  the  west  side  of  extratropical  lands  ;  and,  when 
acting  ir  very  favorable  circumstances,  would  form  islands,  by  making 
Dreaches  throuf  h  co  itinents,  or  separating  their  prominent  parts.     The 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  223 

detached  groups  of  islands.  There  is,  first,  the  British  group, 
little  difTerent  in  form  and  extent  from  what  it  is  now,  save 
that  the  south-eastern  corner  of  England  is  cut  oflT  diagonally, 
from  the  Wash  to  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  next  the  Swedish  and 
Norwegian  group,  consisting  mainly  of  one  great  island:  and 
then  a  still  larger  group  than  either,  scattered  over  the  existing 
area  of  France,  Southern  Austria,  part  of  Turkey  in  Europe, 
and  part  of  Italy.  Running  through  the  midst,  there  is  a  broad 
ocean  sound,  that  stretches  across,  where  it  opens  into  the  Ger- 
man Sea,  from  Norway  to  Dover,  and  that  then  expands  in 
breadth,  and  sweeps  eastwards,  —  covering  in  its  course  the  beds 
of  the  Black  and  the  Cajpian  Seas,  —  into  the  great  Asiatic  ba- 
sin. And  in  this  Europe  of  shreds  and  fragments,  —  of  detached 
clusters  of  islets,  with  broad  ocean  channels  flowing  between, 

boundary  between  the  opposite  currents  would  be  between  the  latitudes 
of  28'-'  and  30°,  where  a  zone  of  still  water  would  exist ;  and  their  maxi- 
mum etfort  would  be  near  the  equator,  and  within  the  polar  circle.  When 
the  land  was  rising,  and  near  the  surface  of  the  water,  or  partially  above 
it,  the  currents  would  produce  the  plienoniena  of  Crag  and  Tail.  The 
crag  or  head  would  point  to  the  east  within  the  tropics,  and  to  the  west 
in  the  temperate  regions.  The  current  wo.;'.J  of  course  not  flow  invaria- 
bly in  one  precise  direction,  but  be  occasionally  detlectod  by  high  lands  to 
the  north  or  south  of  its  true  direction.  We  must  keep  in  mind  also,  that 
though  not  perhaps  very  strong,  it  would  be  constant ;  and  tliat  transi- 
tory storms  and  hurricanes  would  generally  incorporate  themselves  with 
it,  and  augment  its  force.  A  temporary  current  evidently  would  not 
explain  tiie  facts.  If  the  same  agent  swept  away  the  solid  rocks  which 
once  environed  and  covered  Artiiur's  Seat  and  North  Bcrwicli  Law,  and 
also  deposited  tlie  tail  of  clay  an<l  gravel  lying  behind  these  mountains,  it 
must  have  acted  for  tliousands  of  years.  But  it  is  more  probalile  that 
tliere  were  two  jr  more  currents  at  distant  epoclis.  Perhaps  New  Hol- 
land, New  Guinea,  Borneo,  the  Philippines,  and  Spice  Islands,  may  bo 
the  remnants  of  what  was  once  the  southern  prolongation  of  the  Asiatic 
continent,  aiil  which  liad  been  breached  and  divided  by  the  tropical  cur- 
rent before  Africa  nnd  South  America  rose  from  the  deep  to  arrest  its  fi-ee 
course.  The  idea,  however,  is  thrown  out  merely  as  a  conjecture  on  a 
•i.bject  requiring  mui  h  additional  investigation." 


226  FIRST    IMPKESSTONS    OF 

—  the  strange  existences  described  by  Cuvier  f  njoyed  life  dur- 
ing the  earlier  ages  of  the  Tertiary.  As  we  descend  towards 
the  present  state  of  things,  and  lands  and  seas  approximate  to 
their  existing  relations,  the  geographic  data  become  more 
certain.  One  side  of  the  globe  has,  we  find,  its  vanishing 
continent,  —  the  other  its  disappaaring  ocean.  The  northern 
portion  of  our  own  country  presents  almost  the  identical  outline 
which  the  modern  geographer  transfers  to  his  atlas,  save  that 
there  is  here  and  there  a  narrow  selvage  clipped  off  and  given 
to  the  sea,  and  that  while  the  loftier  headlands  protrude  as  far 
as  now  into  the  ocean,  the  friths  and  bays  sweep  further  inland: 
but  in  the  southern  part  of  the  island  the  map  is  greatly  differ- 
ent ;  a  broad  channel  sweeps  onwards  through  the  middle  of 
the  land ;  and  the  Highlands  of  Wales,  south  and  north,  exist 
as  a  detached,  bold-featured  island,  placed  half-way  between 
the  coasts  of  England  and  Ireland.  I  found  it  exceedingly 
pleasant  to  lie  this  day  on  the  soft  short  sward,  and  look  down 
through  the  half-shut  eye,  as  the  clouds  sailed  slowly  athwart 
the  landscape,  on  an  apparition  of  this  departed  sea,  now  in  sun- 
shine, now  in  shadow.  Adventurous  keel  had  nevtr  ploughed 
it,  nor  had  human  dwelling  arisen  on  its  shores  ;  but  I  could  see, 
amid  its  deep  blue,  as  the  light  flashed  out  amain,  the  white 
gleam  of  wings  around  the  dark  tumbling  of  the  whale  and  the 
grampus:  and  now,  as  the  shadows  rested  on  it  dim  and 
sombre,  a  huge  shoal  of  ice-floes  came  drifting  drearily  from  the 
north,  —  the  snow-laden  rack  brushing  their  fractured  summits, 
and  the  stormy  billows  chafing  angrily  below. 

Was  it  the  sound  of  the  distant  surf  that  was  in  mine  ears, 
or  the  low  moan  of  the  breeze,  as  it  crept  through  the  neigh- 
boring wood  ?  O,  that  hoarse  voice  of  Ocean,  never  silent 
since  time  first  began,  —  where  has  it  not  been  uttered  !  There 
^  stilln(?s3  amid  the  calm  of  the  arid  and  rainless  desert,  whern 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  227 

no  spring  rises  and  no  streamlet  flows,  and  the  loi.g-  caravan 
plies  its  weary  march  amid  the  blinding  glare  of  the  sand,  and 
the  red  unshaded  rays  of  the  fierce  sun.  But  once  and  again, 
and  yet  again,  has  the  roar  of  Ocean  been  there.  It  is  his 
sands  that  the  winds  heap  up ;  and  it  is  the  skeleton  remains 
of  his  vassals  —  shells,  and  fish,  and  the  stony  coral  —  that  the 
rocks  underneath  enclose.  There  is  silence  on  the  tall  luoun- 
taiii-peak,  with  its  glittering  mantle  of  snow,  where  the  panting 
lungs  labor  to  inhale  the  thin  bleak  air,  —  where  no  insect 
murmurs  and  no  bird  flies,  —  and  where  the  eye  wanders  over 
multitudinous  hill-tops  that  lie  far  beneath,  and  vast  dark  forests 
that  sweep  on  to  the  distant  horizon,  and  along  long  hollov* 
valleys  where  the  great  rivers  begin.  And  yet  once  and  again, 
and  yet  again,  has  the  roar  of  Ocean  been  there.  The  effigiec 
of  his  more  ancient  denizens  we  find  sculptured  on  the  crag?, 
(N'here  they  jut  from  beneath  the  ice  into  the  mist-wreath  ;  an  i 
nis  later  beaches,  stage  beyond  stage,  terrace  the  descending' 
sloj)es.  Where  has  the  great  destroyer  not  been, —  the  dc- 
vourer  of  continents,  —  the  blue  foaming  dragon,  whose  voca- 
tion  it  is  to  eat  up  the  land  ?  His  ice-floes  have  alike  furrowed 
the  flat  steppes  of  Siberia  and  the  rocky  flanks  of  Schehallion  ; 
and  his  numiimlites  and  fish  lie  imbedded  in  great  stones  of 
the  pyramids,  hewn  in  the  times  of  the  old  Pharaohs,  and  ir- 
rocky  folds  of  Lebanon  still  untouched  by  the  tool.  So  long  a  ^ 
Ocean  exists  there  must  be  disintegration,  dilapidation,  change  , 
and  should  the  time  ever  arrive  when  the  elevatory  agencie^, 
motionless  and  chill,  shall  sleep  within  their  profound  depths, 
to  awaken  no  more,  —  and  should  the  sea  still  continue  vo 
impel  its  currents  and  to  roll  its  waves,  —  every  continent  a\i(\ 
island  would  at  length  disappear,  and  again,  as  of  old,  "  \vl)"'= 
the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  were  broken  up," 

"  A  shoreless  ocean  tumble  round  the  globe.** 


228  FmST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

Was  it  with  reference  to  this  principle,  so  recently  recognized, 
that  we  are  so  expressly  told  in  the  Apocalypse  respecting  the 
tenovated  earth,  in  which  the  state  of  things  shall  be  fixed  and 
eternal,  that  "  there  shall  be  no  more  sea  "  ?  or  are  we  to  regard 
the  revelation  as  the  mere  hieroglyphic  —  the  pictured  shape 

—  of  some  analoijous  moral  truth  ?  "  Reasoning-  from  what  we 
know,"  —  and  what  else  remains  to  us  ?  —  an  earth  without  a 
sea  would  be  an  earth  without  rain,  without  vegetation,  without 
life,  —  a  dead  and  doleful  planet  of  waste  places,  such  as  the 
telescope  reveals  to  us  in  the  moon.  And  yet  the  Ocean  does 
seem  peculiarly  a  creature  of  time,  —  of  all  the  great  agents  of 
vicissitude  and  change,  the  most  influential  and  untiring;  and 
to  a  state  in  which  there  shall  be  no  vicissitude  and  no  change, 

—  in  which  the  earthquakes  shall  not  heave  from  beneath,  nor 
the  mountains  wear  down  and  the  continents  melt  away,  —  it 
seems  inevitably  necessary  that  there  should  be  "  no  more  sea." 

But,  carried  away  by  the  speculation,  I  lag  in  my  geological 
tiurvey 


ENniANn    ANT)    JTS    FEOTLE.  229 


CHAPTER     XII. 

Geological  Coloring  of  the  Landscape.—  Close  Proximity  in  th^s  Ntigh' 
borhood  of  the  various  Geologic  Systems.  —  The  Oolite  ;  its  Medicinal 
Springs  ;  how  formed.  —  Cheltenham.  —  Strathpeffer.  —  The  Saliferous 
System  ;  its  Organic  Remains  and  Foot-prints.  —  Record  of  Curious 
Passages  in  the  History  of  the  Earlier  Reptiles.  —  Salt  Deposits.  — 
Theory.  —  The  Abstraction  of  Salt  from  the  Sea  on  a  large  Scale  prob- 
ably necessary  to  the  continued  Existence  of  its  Denizens.  —  Lower 
New  Red  Sandstone.  —  Great  Geologic  Revolution.  —  Elevation  of  the 
Trap.  —  Hills  of  Clent ;  Era  of  the  Elevation.  —  Coal  Measures  ;  their 
three  Forests  in  the  Neighborhood  of  Wolverhampton.  —  Comparatively 
small  Area  of  the  Birmingham  Coal-field. —  Vast  Coal-fields  of  the 
United  States.  —  Berkeley's  Prophecy.  —  Old  Red  Sandstone.  —Silurian 
System.  —  Blank. 

Let  us  now  raise  from  oft' the  landscape  another  integ^ument, 
-  let  us  remove  the  boulder  clays  and  gravels,  as  we  formerly 
r'^iioved  the  vegetable  mould,  and  lay  the  rock  ever}^where 
bare.  There  is  no  longer  any  lack  of  color  in  the  prospect; 
it  resembles,  on  the  contrary,  a  map  variously  tinted  by  the 
geographer,  to  enable  the  eye  to  trace  his  several  divisions, 
natural  or  arbitrary.  The  range  of  trap-hills  which  furnishes 
our  peak  of  survey  is  of  ?.  deep  olive-green ;  the  New  Red 
Sandstone  that  spreads  out  so  widely  around  it,  of  a  bright 
brick-red.  There  is  a  coal-field  on  either  hand,  —  the  barren 
field  of  the  Forest  of  Wyre,  and  the  singularly  productive  field 
of  Dudley ;  and  they  both  are  irregularly  checkered  black,  yel 
low,  and  gray.  Beyond  the  Wyre  field  lies  an  immense  district 
of  a  deep  chocolate-red  tint, —  a  huge  development  of  the  Ola 
Red  Sandstone.  Still  further  beyond,  we  may  discern  in  the 
distance  a  bluish-gray  province  of  great  extent,  much  broken 
20 


280  nitsT  iMrriKssioNs  of 

into  hills,  which  consists  of  an  at  least  equally  huge  develop- 
ment of  the  Silurian ;  while,  rising  over  the  red  saliferous  marls 
in  an  opposite  direction,  we  may  see  a  series  of  flat,  low-lying 
locks  of  the  Oolitic  system,  passing  from  a  pale  neutral  tint 
into  a  smoky  brown  and  a  light  straw-yellow.  In  such  close 
proximity  are  the  geological  systems  in  this  part  of  the  country 
that  the  geologist  who  passes  the  night  in  Birmingham  on  the 
Lower  New  Red  Sandstone,  may  go  and  take  an  early  break- 
fast on  the  Silurian,  the  Old  Red,  the  Carboniferous,  the  Salif- 
erous, or  the  Oolitic  systems,  just  as  he  inclines.  Good  sections, 
such  as  our  northern  sea-coasts  furnish,  are  all  that  are  wanting 
to  render  the  locality  one  of  the  finest  in  the  kingdom  to  the 
student  of  the  stony  science :  but  these  he  misses  sadly;  and 
he,  alas !  cannot  deal  with  the  stubborn  integuments  of  the 
country  in  reality,  as  we  are  dealing  with  them  so  much  at  our 
case  in  imagination,  on  one  of  the  summits  of  the  Clent  Hills. 

The  integument  that  falls  to  be  examined  first  in  order,  after 
the  boulder  drift  and  the  gravels,  is  the  Oolitic  one ;  but  it 
occupies  merely  a  corner  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon,  and  need 
not  engage  us  long.  One  remark  regarding  it,  however,  though 
rendered  familiar  to  the  geologic  reader  by  the  writings  of 
Murchison  and  Mantell,  I  shall  venture  to  repeat.  We  have 
seen  how  this  central  district  of  the  kingdom  has  its  storehouses 
of  coal,  iron,  salt,  lime,  —  liberal  donations  to  the  wants  of  the 
human  animal,  from  the  Carboniferous,  Saliferous,  and  Silurian 
systems;  and  to  these  we  must  now  add  its  inexhaustible 
deposits  of  medicine,  —  contributions  to  the  general  stock  by  the 
Oolitic  system.  Along  the  course  of  the  Lias,  medicinal  springs 
abound;  there  is  no  other  part  of  England  where  they  rise  .so 
thickly,  or  of  a  quality  that  exerts  a  more  powerful  influence 
on  the  human  frame.  The  mineral  waters  of  Cheltenham,  foi 
instance,  so  celebrated  for  their  virtues,  are  of  the  number;  an  J 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  231 

the  wiiy  in  which  they  are  elaborated  in  such  vast  quantities 
seems  to  be  simply  as  follows:  —  They  all  rise  in  the  Lias, — 
a  formation  abounding  in  sulphate  of  iron,  lime,  magnesia, 
lignite,  and  various  bituminous  matters;  but  they  have  their 
origin  far  beneath,  in  the  saliferous  marls  of  the  Upper  New 
Red,  which  the  Lias  overlies.  In  the  inferior  formation  they 
are  simply  brine  springs :  but  brine  is  a  powerful  solvent;  pass- 
ing through  the  Lias,  it  acts  upon  the  sulphur  and  the  iron ; 
becomes,  by  means  of  the  acid  thus  set  free  and  incorporated 
with  it,  a  more  powerful  solvent  still ;  operates  upon  the  lime, 
upon  the  magnesia,  upon  the  various  lignites  and  bitumens; 
and  at  length  rises  to  the  surface,  a  brine-digested  extract  of 
Liasic  minerals.  The  several  springs  yield  various  analyses, 
according  to  the  various  rocks  of  the  upper  formation  which 
they  pass  through,  —  some  containing  more,  some  less  lime, 
sulphur,  iron,  magnesia ;  but  in  all  the  dissolving  menstruum, 
is  the  same.  And  such,  it  would  appear,  is  the  mode  in  which 
Nature  prepares  her  simples  in  this  rich  district,  and  keeps  het 
medicine-chest  ever  full. 

Let  us  trace  the  progress  of  a  single  pint  of  the  water  thus 
elaborated,  from  where  it  first  alights  on  the  spongy  soil  in  a 
wintry  shower,  till  where  it  sparkles  in  the  glass  in  the  pump- 
room  at  Cheltenham.  It  falls  among  the  fiat  hills  that  sweep 
around  the  ancient  city  of  Worcester,  and  straightway  buries 
itself,  all  fresh  and  soft,  in  the  folds  of  the  Upper  New  Red 
Sandstone,  where  they  incline  gently  to  the  east.  It  percolates, 
in  its  downward  progress,  along  one  of  the  unworkable  seama 
of  rock-salt  that  occur  in  the  superior  marls  of  the  formation ; 
and,  as  it  pursues,  furlong  after  furlong,  its  subterranean  jour- 
ney, savors  more  and  more  strongly  of  the  company  it  keeps ; 
becomes  in  succession  hard,  brackish,  saline,  briny;  and  then 
many  fathoms  below  the  level  at  which  it  had  entered,  escapes 


232  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

from  the  sa  iferous  stratum,  tn rough  a  transverse  fissi<re,  into 
an  inferior  Liasic  bed.  And  here  it  trickles,  for  many  hundred 
yards,  through  a  pyritiferous  shale,  on  which  its  biting  salts  act 
so  powerfully,  that  it  becomes  strongly  tinctured  by  the  iron 
oxide,  and  acidulated  by  the  sulphur.  And  now  it  forces  its 
upward  way  through  the  minute  crevices  of  a  dolomitic  lime- 
stone, which  its  salts  and  acids  serve  partially  to  decompose ; 
so  that  to  its  salt,  iron  and  sulphur,  it  now  adds  its  lime  and 
its  magnesia.  And  now  it  flows  through  beds  of  organic 
remains,  animal  and  vegetable,  —  now  through  a  stratum  of 
belemnites,  and  now  a  layer  of  fish,  —  now  beside  a  seam  of 
lignite,  and  now  along  a  vein  of  bitumen.  Here  it  carries 
along  with  it  a  dilate  infusion  of  what  had  been  once  the  mus- 
cular tissue  of  a  crocodile,  and  here  the  strainings  of  the  bones 
of  an  ichthyosaurus.  And  now  it  comes  gushing  to  the  light 
in  an  upper  Liasic  stratum,  considerably  higher  in  the  geologic 
scale  than  the  saliferous  sandstones  into  which  it  had  at  first 
sunk,  but  considerably  lower  with  reference  to  the  existing 
levels.  And  now  take  it  and  drink  it  oflT  at  once,  without 
pause  or  breathing  space.  It  is  not  palatable,  and  it  smells 
villanously;  but  never  did  apothecary  mix  up  a  more  curiously- 
compounded  draught ;  and  if  it  be  not  as  salutary  as  it  is  elab- 
orate, the  faculty  are  sadly  in  error. 

The  underground  history  of  the  mineral  springs  of  Great 
Britain  would  form  an  exceedingly  curioas  chapter.  I  visited, 
a  few  weeks  since,  the  springs  at  Strathpeflfer,  and  explored,  a.s 
carefully  as  rather  imperfect  sections  and  rather  limited  time 
permitted,  the  geology  of  the  valley.  The  lower  hills  that 
rise  around  it  are  composed  of  the  great  conglomerate  base  of 
the  Old  Red  Sandstone  system.  The  denudation  of  ages  has 
swept  every  trace  of  the  superior  strata  from  their  sides  and 
summits;  but  in  the  sheltered  trough  of  the  valley  at  least  one 


ENGLANr  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  233 

of  the  overlying  beds  las  escaped.  We  find  laid  at  length 
along  the  hollow  bottom,  like  a  pancake  in  a  platter,  the  lower 
"chthyolitic  bed  of  the  formation,  so  rich  in  other  parts  of  the 
country  in  animal  remains,  but  which  exists  in  this  locality  as 
a  gray  brecciated  rock,  devoid  of  visible  fossils,  but  so  largely 
saturated  with  the  organic  matter  into  which  they  have  been 
resolv  id,  that,  when  struck  by  the  hammer,  the  impalpable 
dust  set  loose  afTects  very  sensibly  the  organs  of  taste,  and 
appeals  scarce  less  strongly  to  those  of  smell  than  the  swine- 
stones  of  England,  And  it  is  through  this  saturated  bed  that 
the  mineral  waters  take  their  course.  Even  the  upper  springs 
of  the  valley,  as  they  pass  over  it,  contract,  in  a  sensible  degree, 
its  peculiar  taste  and  odor.  The  dweller  on  the  sea-coast  i."* 
struck,  on  entering  the  pump-room,  by  the  familiarity  of  the 
powerful  smell  which  fills  the  place.  It  is  that  of  a  muddy 
sea-bottom  when  uncovered  by  the  ebb.  He  finds  that,  what 
ever  else  may  have  changed  v.-ithin  the  rock  since  the  times  of 
the  Lower  Old  Red  Sandstone,  the  scent  of  the  ancient  ooze 
of  this  system  is  exactly  what  it  ever  was  ;  and  he  dri/iks  the 
water,  convinced,  if  a  geologist,  that  if  man  did  not  come  early 
enough  in  the  day  to  breakfast  on  the  fish  of  the  Ola  Red, — 
Acanthodiens,  Dipterieiis,  Coccostei,  and  Pterichthyes,  —  he  htiJ 
at  least  come  quite  in  lime  enough  to  gulp  down  as  medicine 
an  infusion  of  their  juices  and  their  bones. 

We  strip  oflTthe  Liasic  integument,  "as  ye  peel  the  fig  when 
its  fruit  is  fresh ;"  and  it  is  with  the  Upper  New  Red  forma- 
tion, on  which  the  Lias  rests,  —  its  saliferous  marls  and  vast 
beds  of  rock-salt,  —  that  we  have  now  to  deal.  There  occurs 
among  the  superior  strata  of  the  formation  a  bed  of  variously^ 
colored  sandstone,  of  little  depth,  but  great  hori:^ntal  extent, 
remarkable  for  containing,  what  in  England  at  least  is  compar- 
itiveyrare  in  the  New  Red,  organic  remains.  We  find  it 
20* 


234  FIRST    IMPRKSSIONS    OF 

chiefly  characterized  by  an  inequilateral  bivalve,  not  larger 
than  a  small  pea,  which  conchologists  term  the  Posidonomya ; 
and  by  the  teeth  and  ichthyodorulites  of  fishes:  on  the  surface, 
too,  of  some  of  its  ripple-marked  slabs,  curious  records  lie 
inscribed  of  the  doings  of  the  earlier  reptiles.  On  one  large 
slab  in  the  Warwick  Museum,  figured  by  Sir  Roderick  Mur- 
chison,  we  may  see  the  footprints  of  some  betailed  batrachian, 
that  went  waddling  along,  greatly  at  its  leisure,  several  hun- 
dred thousand  years  ago,  like  the  sheep  of  the  nursery  rhyme, 
"  trailing  its  tail  behind  it."  There  is  a  double  track  of  foot- 
prints on  the  flag,  —  those  of  the  right  and  left  feet:  in  the 
middle,  between  the  two,  lies  the  long  groove  formed  by  the 
tail,  —  a  groove  continuous,  but  slightly  zig-zagged,  to  indicate 
the  waddle.  The  creature  half-way  in  its  course  lay  down  to 
rest,  having  apparently  not  much  to  do,  and  its  abdomen  formed 
a  slight  hollow  in  the  sand  beneath.  In  again  rising  to  its 
feet,  it  sprawled  a  little ;  and  the  hinder  part  of  its  body,  in 
getting  into  motion,  fretted  the  portion  of  the  surface  that  fur- 
nished the  main  fulcrum  of  the  movement,  into  two  wave-like 
curves.  The  marks  on  another  slab  of  the  same  formation 
compose  such  a  notice  of  the  doings  of  one  of  the  earlier  che- 
lonians  as  a  provincial  editor  would  set  into  type  for  his  news- 
paper, were  the  reptile  My  Lord  Somebody,  his  patron.  The 
chelonian  journeyed  adown  a  moist  sandy  slope,  furrowed  by 
ripple-markings,  apparently  to  a  watering-place.  He  travelled 
leisurely,  as  became  a  reptile  of  consequence,  set  down  his  full 
weight  each  step  he  took,  and  left  a  deep-marked  track  in 
double  lino  behind  him.  And  yet,  were  his  nerves  less  strong 
ne  might  haye  bestirred  himself;  for  the  southern  heavens  were 
dark  with  teihpest  at  the  time,  and  a  thunderous-like  shower, 
scarce  a  mile  a-vay,  threatened  to  wet  him  to  the  skin.  On  it 
«.mo :  and  the  large  round  drops,  driven  aslant  by  a  gale  from 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPl^.  235 

t1  e  south,  struck  in*r>  the  sand  like  small  shot,  at  an  angle  of 
sixty.  How  the  traveller  fared  on  the  occasion  has  not  trans- 
pired  ;  but  clear  and  palpable  it  is  that  he  must  have  been  a 
firm  fellow,  and  that  the  heavy  globular  drops  made  a  much  less 
marked  impression  on  the  sand  consolidated  by  his  tread,  than 
when  they  fell  elsewhere  on  the  incoherent  surface  around  him. 
Such  are  two  of  the  curious  old-world  stories  recorded  on  this 
upper  bed  of  New  Red  Sandstone  ;  and  there  are  many  more 
of  the  same  class.  A  lower  bed  of  lighi-colored  stone  occupies 
•.he  base  of  the  saliferous  system,  forming  its  pavement,  and 
separating  it  from  the  inferior  New  Red.  And  this  bed  has 
also  its  organisms,  chiefly  vegetable,  —  flabeiliform  palm-leaves, 
—  narrow,  slender  spikes,  resembling  those  of  the  grasses, — 
and  a  peculiarly  formed  ear-like  cone  or  catkin,  termed  the 
echinostachys.  And  these  constitute  some  of  the  earliest 
remains  known  to  the  geologist  of  a  flora  specifically  different 
from  that  of  the  Coal  Measures.  Interposed  between  this 
pavement  and  the  fossiliferous  sandstone  band  above,  there 
occurs  a  vast  thickness  of  saliferous  marls,  interstratified  with 
those  enormous  beds  of  rock-salt,  continuous  over  wide  areas, 
in  which  all  the  salt-mines  of  England  have  been  eccavated, 
and  whicli  now  forces  upon  us,  a  second  time,  the  problem  of 
the  saliferous  deposits.  The  wind-bound  ship-ma  ..er,  detained 
in  port  long  after  the  specified  day  of  sailing,  tak(.«  instruments 
in  the  hands  of  a  legal  official,  and,  "  protesti\.g  against  the 
weather,"  frees  himself  from  all  risk  of  prosecution  from  pas- 
sender  or  supercargo.  I  have  already,  in  like  manner,  enlv^red 
mv  protest  against  the  difficulties  which  environ  this  subject; 
and  shall  now  launch  into  it,  shielded  by  the  document  against 
the  responsibility  of  fai.'ure,  or  the  odium  consequent  on  enter- 
11  cr  a  wrong  port. 

If  in  the  existing  state  of  things  we  seek   for  phenompnii 


236  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OP 

Similar  in  kind  to  those  which  produced  the  Coal  Measures,  we 
shall  not  be  disappointed ;  but  we  shall  be  greatly  disappointed 
if  we  seek  for  phenomena  not  only  similar  in  kind,  but  also 
equal  in  power.  An  American  swamp  or  a  Scotch  morass 
gives  us  but  the  equivalent  of  a  single  thin  seam  of  coal ;  a 
submarine  peat-moss,  based  on  a  layer  of  vegetable  mould,  and 
topped  by  a  bed  of  sea-sand,  the  equivalent  merely  of  a  single 
thin  seam,  resting  on  an  earthy  shale,  and  overlaid  by  a  shelly 
sandstone.  Swamp,  morass,  submerged  peat-moss,  nay,  even 
if  we  add  to  these  some  river  delta,  which,  like  that  of  the 
Mississippi,  receives  the  spoils  of  a  wide  forest-covered  conti- 
nent, are  but  slender  representatives  of  even  our  Scottish  coal- 
field, with  its  three  hundred  and  eighty-seven  successive  beds, 
of  which  eighty-four  are  seams  of  coal.  We  must  be  content, 
in  our  illustrations  drawn  from  the  present  scene  of  things, 
with  phenomena  similar  in  kind,  without  looking  for  aught 
corresponding  in  extent.  Even  had  we  now  the  Carboniferous 
vegetation,  the  stifi'  and  rigid  earth,  grown  old,  would  not 
exhibit  the  ever-recurring  sinkings,  with  occasional  risings,  of 
surface,  which  buried  the  lower  beds  of  the  Carboniferous  sys- 
tem full  four  thousand  feet  beneath  its  upper  deposits.  Now, 
in  dealing  with  the  Saliferous  system,  let  us  content  ourselves, 
as  in  dealing  with  the  Coal  Measures,  with  simply  illustrating 
the  foregone  phenomena  by  phenomena  of  the  existing  state  of 
things  apparently  similar  in  kind,  though  palpably  dissimilar  in 
extent  and  deoree.  Let  us  take  for  g-ranted.  as  we  do  in  the 
case  of  the  Carboniferous  period,  a  comparatively  flexible  state 
of  the  earth's  crust,  —  frequent  sinkings  of  the  surface,  with 
occasional  risings  and  progressive  depositions  of  matter,  that 
keep  pace  with  the  general  subsidence.  And  let  us  then  refer 
to  some  of  the  salt  formations  of  the  present  time,  as  iliustra* 
live  of  tho  va    in  which,  amid  greatly  more  active  energies  oi 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  237 

nature,  vastly  more  enormous  deposits  of  this  mineral  cnme  to 
oe  foriDcd  ;  just  as  our  writers  on  the  Coal  Measures  refer,  on 
a  similar  understanding,  to  existing-  swamps  and  mosses. 

We  are  told  by  Major  Harris,  in  his  "Highlands  of  Ethio- 
pia," that  when  on  his  journey,  he  reached,  with  his  party, 
near  the  Abyssinian  frontier,  a  desert  valley,  occupied  by  a  salt 
lake,  the  Bahr  Assal,  which  forms  a  prolongation  of  the  Gulf 
of  Tadjura.  A  broad  bar  of  lava  had  cut  off  its  waters  fram 
those  of  the  gulf;  and,  fed  by  no  rivers,  and  exposed  in  a  burn- 
mg  climate  to  the  unmitigated  rays  of  the  sun,  intensified  by 
reflection  from  hot  rocky  mountains,  they  had  shrunk  into  "an 
elliptical  basin,  seven  miles  in  its  transverse  axis,  half-filled 
with  smooth  water  of  the  deepest  cerulean  hue,  and  half  with 
a  solid  sheet  of  glittering,  snow-white  salt,  the  offspring  of 
evaporation."  Here,  at  least,  was  one  extensive  bed  of  salt  in 
the  forming ;  nor  is  it  difficult  to  conceive  how :  the  work  of 
evaporation  completed,  and  the  entire  lake  rendered  a  white, 
solid  mass,  some  general  sinking  of  the  surface  continued,  till 
the  waves  of  the  outer  gulf  toppled  for  a  time  over  the  lava 
bar,  and  then,  succeeded,  as  such  sinkings  so  often  were  dur- 
ing the  Carboniferous  period,  by  a  slight  elevatory  movement, 
might  give  to  it  a  second  supply  of  brine  with  which  to  double 
its  thickness.  We  find  no  lava  bars  in  the  saliferous  sand- 
stone ;  but  sand-bars  raised  by  the  surf  on  a  flat  arenaceous 
coast  during  a  slow  and  equable  sinking  of  the  surface,  would 
meet  the  emergencies  of  our  theory  less  clumsily,  and  better. 
Let  us  conceive,  then,  along  a  range  of  flat  coast  extending 
from  the  northern  parts  of  Lancashire  to  the  Bristol  Channel,  a 
chain  of  lagoons,  some  of  lesser,  some  of  larger  extent,  and 
separated  from  the  main  sea  by  sand  spits  or  bars  raised  by 
the  surf;  let  us  suppose  the  climate  to  be  at  least  as  warm  as 
tlia*  ^r.  the  African  shore  tf  the  Red  Sea  in  which  the  salt  of 


238  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    CP 

the  Bihr  Assal  is  forming' ;  let  us  imagine  a  subsidence  of  the 
lana  going  on  so  exceedingly  slow  and  gradual  as  to  be  counter- 
balanced by  the  deposition  of  earthy  matter  taking  place  in  the 
sea  on  the  one  hand,  —  by  the  crystallization  of  the  salt  in  the 
lagoons,  fed  by  occasional  supplies  of  salt  water,  on  the  other, 
—  and  by  the  rise  of  the  bar,  ever  operated  upon  by  the  surf, 
in  the  line  between.  A  paroxysm  of  sudden  subsidence  would, 
of  course,  bring  the  formation  of  the  salt-bed  to  a  close,  and 
cover  it  up  with  a  stratum  of  sand  or  marl  ;  a  slight  elevatory 
movement  succeeding  the  paroxysm  would  have  the  effect  of 
rendering  the  superimposed  stratum  the  foundation  of  a  second 
lagoon  and  second  bed  of  salt.  According  as  the  periods  be- 
tween the  elevatory  movements  and  the  paroxysms  of  subsi- 
dence were  long  or  short,  the  beds  of  salt  would  be  thick  or 
thin.  Among  the  five  beds  that  occur  at  Stoke  Prior,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Droitwich,  there  is  one  more  than  thirty  feet  in 
depth,  and  one  not  more  than  six  inches.  According  as  the 
duration  of  the  term  of  submergence  was  extended  or  brief, 
would  be  the  thickness  or  thinness  of  the  bars  by  which  the 
salt-beds  were  separated.  At  Stoke  Prior,  one  of  these  sepa- 
ratincf  bars  falls  short  of  three  feet,  while  another  somewhat 
exceeds  twenty-four.  As  the  lagoons  chanced  to  be  well  or 
ill  protected  from  the  introduction  of  extraneous  matter,  the 
salt  which  formed  in  them  would  be  pure  or  impure.  One  of 
the  Stoke  Prior  beds  contains  full  twenty-five  per  cent,  of  red- 
dish marl,  while  another  is  so  unmixed  with  earthy  matter 
that  it  might  be  used,  without  any  previous  refining  prepara- 
tion, for  the  purpose  of  the  fish-curer.  And  thus  deposition 
after  deposition  would  take  place,  and,  as  in  the  Coal  Measures, 
subsidence  succeed  subsidence,  until  the  entire  Saliferous  sys- 
tem would  :ome  to  be  formed.  It  has  been  started  as  an  objec- 
tion to  th<»  lagoon  theory,  that  the  salt-beds  contain  no  oiganic 


ENGLAND    ANJ    ITS    PEOPI »?  239 

roiiiair.s,  whi'cli,  it  is  held,  they  would  have  don;  had  they 
owed  their  origin  to  sea-water.  I  am,  however,  not  sure  that 
the  objection  is  particularly  strong-.  Let  ut  remember  that  the 
organisms  of  the  entire  system  in  England  are  but  few  and  ill 
preserved,  and  that  the  marls  which  alternate  with  the  s.il» 
have  failed  to  preserve  organisms  at  all  ;  while  the  shellr.  of 
the  "uperior  band  occur  but  as  mere  casts  in  an  incoherent 
clay.  Let  us  further  remember  what  takes  place  in  the  upper 
pots  and  hollows  of  our  rocky  shores,  when,  at  the  height  of  a 
streatT.-tide,  they  receive  their  fill  of  sea-water  mingled  with 
sea-wrack,  and  are  then  left  during  the  neaps  to  present  their 
festering  contents  undisturbed  and  undiluted  to  the  influence 
of  the  sun.  Their  waters  assume  a  turbid  blue  color  and  a 
strong  fetid  odor,  and  become  in  this  state  so  powerful  a  dis- 
solvent, that  a  few  warm  days  converts  the  wrack  which  they 
contain  into  an  impalpable  mud.  Further,  it  may  be  deemed 
a  fact  worthy  of  consideration,  as  at  least  not  hostile  to  the 
sea-water  theory,  that  the  rock-salt  of  England  contains,  like 
the  bilge-water  of  these  tide-forsaken  pots,  a  considerable  ad- 
mixture of  iodine,  —  a  substance  which  enters  largely  into  the 
composition  of  the  sponges  and  marine  algae. 

Single  masses  of  salt,  like  those  of  Cordova,  might  come  to 
be  elaborated  by  a  greatly  more  simple  process.  The  Mediter- 
ranean is  not  an  intertropical  sea  ;  but  what,  notwithstanding, 
would  be  the  probable  result,  were  it  to  be  cut  off  frrm  the 
Atlantic  by  some  such  bar  of  rock  as  severed  the  Bahr  Assjl 
from  the  Gulf  o(  Tadjura  ?  There  is  no  other  inland  sea  that, 
in  proportion  to  its  extent  of  surface,  receives  such  scanty  con- 
tributions of  river  water;  and,  to  supply  the  waste  of  evapora* 
tinn  ffi/m  its  million  of  square  miles  of  surface,  its  deep  throat 
is  continually  gulping  up  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic  at  thp 
rate  of  many  thousand  tons  hourly.     A  powerful  current  flowr 


240  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

incessantly  inwards  through  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  and  yet 
the  level  within  is  not  more  than  maintained.  Were  the 
Atlantic  excluded,  the  inland  sea  would  of  course  gradually 
dry  up,  until  its  area  had  so  considerably  lessened  that  its 
rivers  would  be  of  themselves  sufficient  to  counterbalance  its 
waste  of  surface  ;  and  were  its  rivers  wanting,  as  might  well 
be  the  case  had  it  a  Desert  of  Sahara  on  ks  northern,  as  on  its 
southern  side,  even  its  profounder  depths  of  more  than  a  thou- 
sand fathoms  would  in  time  evaporate,  and  but  enormous  beds 
of  salt  remain  behind.  It  seems  not  improbable,  that  the  loose 
arenaceous  materials  of  the  New  Red  Sandstone  may  have 
existed,  ere  they  formed  an  ocean  bottom,  as  the  incoherent 
sands  of  some  geologic  Sahara  that  encircled  the  inland  seas 
and  lagoons  of  this  system,  and  that  a  consequent  lack  of  rivers 
may  have  operated  influentially  in  the  formation  of  the  salt. 
By  the  way,  may  not  this  process  of  separating  huge  deposits 
of  this  mineral  from  the  sea,  —  a  process  which  has  been  going 
on,  we  find,  in  every  formation,  from  the  Onondaga  salt  group 
of  the  Upper  Silurian,  as  developed  in  the  United  States  of 
America,  down  to  the  recent  salt-lakes  of  the  Asiatic  basin,  — 
be  a  provision  in  nature  for  preserving  to  the  ocean  its  proper 
degree  of  density  and  saturation  ?  In  the  natural  course  of 
things,  the  sea  would  necessarily  be  growing  Salter  and  heavier. 
The  waves  wash  out  of  every  shore,  and  receive  from  every 
ri\er,  minute  supplies  of  salt,  which  evaporation  has  scarce  any 
tendency  to  dissipate,  and  which,  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  would 
be  necessarily  accumulating  in  the  waters,  till  the  delicate  gills 
and  branchiae  of  the  various  inmates,  formed  with  reference  to 
a  rarer  medium,  would  labor  amid  the  dense  and  briny  fluid, 
<ind  their  bodies,  heretofore  of  a  gravity  exactly  proportioned 
to  that  of  their  element,  but  now  grown  too  light  for  it,  would 


ENGLAND   AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  241 

float  hel  ilessly  atop.*  True,  the  salt  seems  in  eve;y  instance 
to  have  been  abstracted  and  locked  up  by  accident ;  but  then 
the  recurrence  of  the  accident  in  every  geologic  formation 
demonstrates  it  to  be  one  of  those  on  which  the  adept  in  the 
doctrine  of  chances  might  safely  calculate.  It  seems  an  acci- 
dent of  the  fixed  class  on  which  Goldsmith  bases  his  well- 
known  reflection  in  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield."  "To  what  a 
fortuitous  concuirence,"  he  remarks,  "do  we  not  owe  every 
pleasure  and  convenience  of  our  lives !  How  many  seeming 
accidents  must  unite  before  we  can  be  clothed  or  fed !  The 
peasant  must  be  disposed^  to  labor,  the  shower  must  fall,  the 
wind  fill  the  merchant's  sail,  or  numbers  must  want  the  usual 
supply." 

And  now  we  strip  off  the  thick  saliferous  integument  of'the 
Uppei  New  Red,  with  all  its  marls,  rock-salts  and  sandstones, 
and  lay  bare  the  lower  formation.  Within  at  least  the  range 
of  our  prosp3Ct,  we  shall  find  in  it  few  marks  of  organic  exist- 
ence, and  these  few  doubtful  and  indistinct.  Some  of  the  red 
incoherent  sandstones  which  form  its  base  contain  carbonaceous 
markings,  but  of  a  character  too  obscure  to  be  interpreted  ;  and 
wc  may  occasionally  detect  in  the  calcareous  conglomerate 
above  —  its  upper  member  —  shells  and  encrinital  stems;  but 
they  occur  in  merely  the  enclosed  fragments,  and  belong  to  the 
older  rocks.  And  yet  there  attaches  no  little  geologic  inter- 
est to  this  barren  formation:  it  marks  the  era  of  a  great 
change.  The  rugged  conglomerate,  which  rises  so  high  along 
the   flanks  of  the  hill  on  which  we  stand,  represents  in  this 

*  Indisposition  prevented  me  from  hearing  Professor  Fleming  lecture 
last  spring  on  the  saliferous  deposits  ;  but  the  idea  starteu  here  1  clongs, 
I  am  inclined  to  suspect,  to  tiie  professor,  Lotwithstanding.  I  think  I 
must  have  received  it  in  conversation,  from  Sume  attendant  on  the  coui-se, 
who  had  enjoyed  the  pleasure  which  I  unluckily  missed 
21 


242  fIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OK 

locality  the  Magnesian  Limestone,  —  the  formatifin  with  which 
the  long-dfc  rived  and  darkly-antique  Paloeozoic  systems  end  and 
on  whose  ipper  platform  the  first  of  the  Secondary  systtma 
begins.  A  strange  shifting  of  scenes  took  place  on  that  rough 
stratum  at  jur  feet ;  but  it  would  seem  as  if  the  theatre  had 
been  darkened  when  the  alterative  process  was  going  on.  The 
lamps  burnt  low,  and  concealed  the  machinery  of  the  stage. 
In  the  long  course  of  geologic  histoiy  there  have  been  many 
medals  struck,  —  many  previous  to  the  time  of  this  revolution, 
and  many  after  it ;  but  none  records  the  nature  of  the  revolu- 
tion itself;  nor  is  there  geology  enough  in  the  world  to  fill  up 
the  gap.  It  yawns  in  the  middle  of  the  forum,  and  no  one  has 
dared  to  fling  even  a  plausible  conjecture  into  it.  Up  till  the 
deposition  of  that  Magnesian  stratum  had  taken  place,  all  the 
fish  of  which  we  possess  specimens  sufficiently  well-preserved 
to  indicate  the  fact  were  characterized  by  the  heterocercal  tail, 
—  the  vertebral  column  was  prolonged  into  the  upper  lobe  of 
the  caudal  fin  ;*  but  with  that  stratum  the  peculiarity  ceased, 
and  fishes  with  the  homocercal  tail  of  our  common  osseous 
varieties  took  their  place.  In  that  Magnesian  formation,  too, 
just  ere  the  occurrence  of  the  revolution,  we  find  the  first  trace 
of  reptiles.  The  long  drama  of  the  Palaeozoic  period,  with  all 
its  distinct  acts,  ended  witli  the  dethronement  of  the  huge 
sauroid  fish,  —  for  untold  ages  the  master  existence  of  creation  ; 

*At  the  annual  general  meeting  of  the  Geological  Society,  held  in 
February  last  (1846),  it  was  stated  by  the  president,  Mr.  Horner,  in  his* 
admirable  address,  that  certain  highly  characteristic  genera  of  the  fishes 
of  the  Old  Red  Sandstone,  such  as  the  Coccosteus  and  Pterichthys,  do 
not  possess  the  heterocercal  tail.  It  should  have  perhaps  been  added, 
however,  to  prevent  misconception,  that  neither  do  they  possess  tails  of 
the  homocercal  type.  The  form  of  tail  in  both  cases  is  r-uite  as  unique 
among  the  ancient  Ganoid  order,  as  that  of  the  tail  of  the  ll;iy  familj 
among  existing  Placoida. 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  2A3 

and  the  ew-born  reptile  reigned  in  its  stead.  We  find,  too, 
numerous  well-known  types  of  shells,  familiar  in  the  older 
rocks,  appearing  in  this  formation  for  the  last  time.  So  far 
as  is  yet  known,  the  Magnesian  Limestone  contains  the  last- 
created  species  of  Producta,  and  the  last-created  Spirifer.  We 
ascertain  that  these  shells  continued  to  exist  up  till  the  break- 
ing out  of  this  great  geologic  revolution,  and  that  then,  like 
some  of  the  extinct  French  noblesse  cut  short  by  the  guillotine, 
they  disappear  forevermore.  And  now,  raising  from  olT  the 
landscape  this  curious  integument,  and  setting  it  aside,  as 
Signor  Sarti  removes  to  a  side-table  one  of  the  bits  of  his 
figure,  —  a  piece  of  the  external  skin,  mayhap,  thickened  by 
Its  adipose  lining  or  a  well-compacted  sheet  of  muscle  and 
sinew,  —  we  lay  bare  the  coal-fields,  and  the  range  of  trappean 
3minences  that  broke  them  up  as  with  wedges,  just  as  their 
upper  strata  had  been  consolidated,  and  they  had  received 
their  first  thin  covering  of  the  Lower  New  Red. 

I  must,  I  find,  employ,  though  with  considerable  modifica- 
tions, an  illustration  which  1  have  used  at  least  once  before. 
Here  is  a  small  shallow  pond,  covered  over  with  a  thick  cake 
of  ice,  and  with  a  line  of  boulders  rising  in  its  centre.  There 
have  been  two  frosts  and  an  intervening  thaw.  Just  as  the 
first  frost  set  in,  the  boulder  tops  lay  under  the  urface,  and 
(he  earlier-formed  crust  of  ice  stretched  over  thtm  ;  but,  as 
frequently  happens  when  the  temperature  sinks  suddenly 
below  the  freezing  point,  a  great  shrinking  of  the  waicr  took 
place  :  the  ice,  unsupported  from  beneath,  leaned  for  a  little 
while  on  the  boulders,  and  then  giving  way  on  both  sides, 
half-way  between  their  summits  and  the  shore,  and,  a^  a 
direct  ccnsequence,  cracking  also  directly  over  them,  the  sum- 
mits c"-me  through,  and  the  ice-sheets  lay  reclining  in  masses 
agjiiiist  them,  b.-oken  by  faults,  and  shiirered  by  transverse 


244  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

cultinjTS.  Ai  this  stage,  however,  the  thaw  came  on,  anti 
encircled  witi  a  shallow  ring  of  water,  that  rose  over  the 
depressed  surface,  the  central  patch  of  shivered  ice,  and  the 
houlders  in  the  midsc;  and  then  the  second  frost  set  in,  and 
the  shallow  liquefied  ring  became  a  solid.  Now,  let  us  mark 
the  phenomena  exhibited.  There,  first,  in  the  centre  of  the 
pond,  rises  the  line  of  boulders.  There  is  an  isolated  area  all 
around  them,  —  a  formation  of  the  earlier  frost,  much  broken 
by  faults ;  and  these  radiate  from  the  stones  rudely  and  irregu- 
larly, but  still,  on  the  whole,  distinctly  enough  to  indicate  the 
boulder-line  as  a  producing  cause  of  the  fracturing  and  dislo- 
cation. And  then,  around  this  broken  and  disjointed  area,  we 
find  an  encircling  formation  of  the  later  frost, —  the  solidified 
ring,  —  in  which  there  are  no  faults  or  cuttings,  but  in  Virhich 
all  is  undisturbed  and  entire.  Our  geological  model  is  now 
complete ;  that  row  of  boulders  represents  the  chain  of  Trap 
and  Silurian  hills  which  runs  along  the  Dudley  coal-field,  and 
whose  elevation  from  below  has  so  broken  up  the  formation 
with  long  lines  of  radiating  faults  and  transverse  fractures. 
The  fractured,  insulated  area  of  the  ice  of  the  first  frost  repre- 
sents the  coal-field  itself;  the  unbroken  enveloping  ring  of  the 
second,  the  surrounding  New  Red  Sandstone. 

Now,  there  are  several  points  worthy  of  notice  in  this  model. 
Observe,  first,  that  we  can  ascertain  with  great  certainty,  rela- 
tively at  least,  at  what  period  the  dislocations  and  fracturings  of 
the  central  area  took  place.  They  occurred  at  the  close,  or  nol 
long  after  the  close,  of  the  first  ice  formation,  and  not  later; 
for  had  they  taken  place  during  the  time  of  the  second  ice 
formation,  it  also  would  have  been  broken  up,  whereas  wo  find 
it  entire.  Observe,  next,  that  under  the  shallow  solidified  ring 
of  the  second  frost  we  may  naturally  expect  to  find  existing,  as 
%  nether  stratum,  a  prolongation  of  the  shattered  ice  of  the  firtt 


FNGLiND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  24n 

And  founding  on  exactly  this  simple  principle,  the  New  Red 
Sandstone  of  this  part  of  the  country,  i.  e.  the  unfractured  ice 
of  the  second  frost,  has  been  lately  pierced  through,  to  get  at 
the  Coal  Measures,  i.  e.  the  fractured  ice  of  the  first ;  and  very 
valuable  thoiigh  deeply-seated  seams  of  coal  have  repaid  the 
boldness  of  the  search,  and  confirmed  the  justness  of  the  reason- 
ing. Observe,  further,  that  this  broken  condition  of  the  coal- 
field, if  its  surface  were  bared  in  the  style  we  have  dared  to 
uncover  it  from  our  hill-top,  as  Asmodeus  uncovered  the  houses 
of  Madrid,  would  present,  viewed  from  above,  a  very  striking 
appearance.  Of  the  twelve  panes  in  the  window  opposite  to 
which  I  write,  by  far  the  most  conspicuous  is  the  pane  through 
the  centre  of  which  an  unlucky  urchin  sent  yesterday  a  stone. 
There  is  a  little  hole  in  the  middle,  from  which  some  fifteen  oi 
twenty  bright  rays  proceed,  star-like,  to  every  part  of  the  astra- 
gal frame.  The  ray-like  cracks  of  the  coal-field  are,  of  course, 
wholly  obscured  by  the  diluvium  and  the  vegetable  mould.  A 
shower  of  snow  —  to  return  to  our  first  illustration  —  has 
covered  up,  with  a  continuous  veil,  central  boulders,  flawed 
area,  and  encircling  ring,  reducing  them  all  to  one  aspect  of 
blank  uniformity;  and  we  can  but  dip  down  upon  the  cracks 
and  flaws,  here  the  point  of  a  finger,  there  the  end  of  a  stick ; 
and  so,  after  many  soundings  have  thus  been  taken,  pie  :e  out 
a  plan  of  the  whole.  It  would  seem  as  if,  in  at  least  one  of 
the  planets  to  which  we  point  the  telescope,  there  is  no  such 
enveloping  integument;  and  the  starred  and  fractured  surface 
remains  exposed  and  naked,  like  that  of  the  ice  of  the  pond  ere 
the  snow-shower  came  on.  Those  who  have  enjoyed  the  lux- 
ury of  hearing  Professor  Nichol,  of  Glasgow,  lecture  on  the 
lunar  phenoniena,  must  remember  his  graphic  description  of 
the  numerous  ray-like  lines,  palpable  as  the  cracks  in  a  dam* 
Bged  pane,  that  radiate  in  every  direction,  some  of  them  extend 
'■21* 


246  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ing  for  hundreds  of  miles,  from  all  the  larger  cra';-jrs  of  the 
moon. 

There  are  not  a  few  interesting  appearances  in  this  Dadley 
coal-field.  Its  seams,  like  those  of  every  other  coal-field  yet 
known,  have  been  formed  under  very  various  conditions  :  some 
of  them  must  have  been  deposits  of  vegetable  matter  washed 
by  rivers  into  seas  or  lakes  ;  some  of  them  seem  to  have  formed 
in  marshy  hollows,  like  our  existing  peat-mosses,  or,  if  we 
must  seek  out  analogies  from  somewhat  warmer  climates  than 
diose  in  which  peat  is  elaborated,  like  the  Dismal  Swamp  of 
the  United  States ;  and  some  evidently  covered  as  great  forests 
the  sites  which  they  now  occupy  as  coal-seams.  There  is  a 
colliery  about  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  south  of  Wolverhampton, 
where  an  outcrop  of  what  is  termed  the  bottom  coal  is  wrought 
'n  the  open  air.  The  surface,  in  consequence,  has  been  bared 
)f  the  debris  and  diluvium,  and  in  one  corner  the  upper  plane 
iif  a  thin  seam  of  coal  exposed  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  acre. 
It  is  found  to  present  exactly  the  appearance  of  a  moor  on 
which  a  full-grown  fir  wood  had  been  cut  down  a  few  months 
before,  and  only  the  stumps  left  behind.  Stump  rises  beside 
stump,  to  the  number  of  seventy-three  in  all :  the  thickly- 
diverging  roots  strike  out  on  every  side  into  what  had  been 
once  vegetable  mould,  but  which  now  exists  as  an  indurated, 
brownish-colored  shale.  Many  trunks,  sorely  flatteaed,  lie 
recumbent  on  the  coal,  some  of  them  full  thirty  feet  in  length, 
while  some  of  the  larger  stumps  measure  rather  more  than  two 
feet  in  diameter.  There  lie  thick  around,  stigmaria,  lepido- 
dendra,  calamites,  and  fragments  of  ulodendra;  and  yet,  with 
ill  the  assistance  which  these  lent,  the  seam  of  coal  formed  by 
this  ancient  forest  does  not  exceed  five  inches  in  thickness.  1/ 
must  have  required  no  little  vegetable  matter  to  consolidate 
into  the  n  ineral  which  supplies  us,  year  after  year,  with  out 


I 


RNOLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  247 

winter  fuel ;  tiie  coal  Avhich  loads  a  single  large  collier  voukl, 
when   t  existed  as  wood,  have  built  many  large  coliier.-;.     Not 
a  few  of  the   stumps   in  this  area  are  evidently  water-worn 
and  there  have  been  found  immediately  over  them  scales  of 
M^alichlhys,  and  the  shells  of  an  Unio,  somewhat  resembling 
in  lorm  the  common  pearl  muscle  of  our  rivers,  but  considerably 
smaller.     The  prostrate  forest  had  been  submerged,  and  mol 
luscs  lived  and  fishes  swam  over  it.     It  is  further  worthy  of 
notice,  that  this  upper  forest  is  underlaid,  at  the  depth  of  a  few 
feet,  by  a  second  forest,  in  which  the  stumps   lie  as  thickly 
and  are  of  as  great  a  size,  as  in  the  first ;  and  that  this  secono 
forest  is  underlaid,  in  turn,  by  the  remains  of  yet  a  third.     We 
find  three  full-grown  forests  closely  packed  up  in  a  depth  of  not 
more  than  twelve  feet. 

Once  more,  ere  we  wrap  up  this  Carboniferous  integument 
of  the  landscape,  and  lay  bare  the  Old  Red  Sandstone,  let  uh 
jnark  to  how  small  a  coal-field  central  England  has,  for  so 
many  years,  owed  its  flourishing  trade.  Its  area,  as  I  have 
already  had  occasion  to  remark,  scarcely  equals  that  of  one  of 
our  larger  Scottish  lakes  ;  and  yet  how  many  thousand  steam- 
engines  has  it  set  in  motion,  —  how  many  railway  trains  has  it 
propelled  across  the  country,  —  how  many  thousand  wagon- 
loads  of  salt  lias  it  elaborated  from  the  brine,  —  how  many  mil- 
lion tons  of  iron  has  it  furnished,  raised  to  the  surface,  smelted, 
and  hammered  I  It  has  made  Birmingham  a  great  city,  —  the 
first  iron  depot  of  Europe  ;  and  filled  the  country  with  crowded 
towns  and  busy  villages.  And  if  one  small  fiekl  has  done  so 
much  what  may  we  not  expect  from  those  vast  basins,  laid 
downi  by  Lyell  in  the  geological  map  of  the  United  Stan-s, 
prefixed  to  his  recent  singularly  interesting  worlc  of  travels? 
When  glancing,  for  the  first  time,  over  the  three  1)  igo  coal 
tields  of  tha  States,  each  "urrounded  by  its  ring  of  Old  Ked 


248  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

Sandstone,  like  patches  of  mineral  bitumen  floating  in  theil 
clay-tinged  pools,  I  called  to  mind  the  prophecy  of  Berkeley, 
and  thought  I  could  at  length  see,  what  Berkeley  could  not. 
the  scheme  of  its  fulfilment.  The  metaphysical  bishop  marked 
the  westward  course  of  empire  :  he  saw  Persia  resigningi||ie 
sceptre  to  Macedonia,  and  Macedonia  yielding  it,  in  turn,  to 
Rome,  and  to  those  western  nations  of  Europe  that  abut  on  the 
Atlantic.  And  at  a  time  when  North  America  was  still  covered 
with  the  primeval  forests,  he  anticipated  an  age  in  which  that 
country  would  occupy  as  preeminent  a  place  among  the  nations 
as  had  been  occupied  in  other  ages  by  Assyria  or  Rome.  Its 
enormous  coal-fields  —  equal  in  extent,  some  of  them,  to  all 
England,  and  whose  dark  seams,  exposed  to  the  light  for  miles, 
inlay  the  landscape  as  with  ebony,  and  impart  to  it  its  most 
striking  peculiarity  of  feature  —  seem  destined  to  form  no 
mean  element  in  its  greatness.  If  a  patch  containing  but  a 
few  square  miles  has  done  so  much  for  central  England,  what 
may  not  fields  containing  many  hundred  square  leagues  do  foi 
the  United  States  ? 

*•  Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way; 
The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day: 
Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last." 

And  now,  stripping  off  the  dark  Coal  Measures  like  a  pall, 
we  expose  the  chocolate-colored  beds  of  the  Old  Red  Sand- 
stone. In  our  immediate  neighborhood  there  is  a  hiatus  in  the 
geologic  series,  —  the  Carboniferous  system  rests  on  the  Silu- 
y'vw. ;  but  westwards,  and  on  to  the  south-west,  we  may  see  the 
<  fid  Red  Sandstone  stretching  away  in  enonnous  development. 
As  estimated  by  a  practised  eye,  —  that  of  Sir  Roderick  Mur- 
chison,  —  its  er.tire  thickness  in  this  part  of  the  country  falls 
litte  short  of  ten  thousand  feet.     Here,  as  everywhere  else,  \\ 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  249 

seems  clii  ■;%  re  narkable  for  its  strange  forms  of  the  vertebrate 
animals,  exchsiirely  fish.  The  Upper  Old  Red  formation,  so 
rich  in  Scotland  in  the  remains  of  Holoptychius,  Platygnathis 
Bothriolepis,  and  their  contemporaries,  is  comparatively  barren 
in  Eng  and.  The  middle  formation,  however,  we  find  mottled 
with  ichthyolitic  fragments,  representative  of  the  two  great 
orders  of  fish  in  which,  at  this  early  period,  and  for  long  ages 
after,  all  vertebrate  existence  was  comprised.  Fragments  of 
the  ichthyodorulites  of  Placoid^  are  not  unfrequent ;  and  the 
occipital  plates  of  the  Ganoid  Cephalaspides  abound.  The 
true  fish  seems  to  have  overspread  and  taken  full  possession  of 
the  seas  during  the  deposition  of  this  system,  as  the  Trilobite 
had  taken  possession  of  them  in  the  preceding  one.  But  we 
hasten  on :  the  thick  Old  Red  coils  up  and  away,  like  a  piece 
of  old  elastic  parchment  that  had  been  acquiring  for  ages  the 
set  of  the  roll ;  and  now  the  still  more  ancient  Silurian  system 
occupies  the  entire  prospect.  In  this  system  the  remains  of 
the  vertebrate  animals  first  appear,  —  few  and  far  between, 
and  restricted,  so  far  as  is  yet  known,  to  its  great  upper  division 
exclusively.  We  pass  hurriedly  downwards.  The  vertebrata 
vanish  from  creation.  We  have  traced  the  dynasty  to  its  first 
beginnings  ;  and  now  an  ignobler,  though  more  ancient,  race  oi 
Ungs  occupy  the  throne.^     We  have  reached,  in  our  explora 

*  Of  course,  in  all  cases  in  which  the  evidence  is  negative,  the  decision 
must  be  given  under  protest,  as  not  in  its  nature  irreversible,  but  depend- 
ent on  whatever  positive  evidence  the  course  of  discovei'y  may  yet  serve  to 
evolve.  In  February  last  '1846),  when  this  chapter  was  written,  no  trace 
of  reptiles  had  been  found  earlier  than  the  Lower  New  Red  Sandstone,  — 
the  Permian  system  of  Sir  Roderick  Murchison.  I  find,  however,  from  a 
report  of  the  procee(liiigs  of  the  meeting  of  the  Britisli  Association,  held 
last  September  at  Soutliampton,  that  ^Ir.  Lyell  having  examinetl  certain 
footprints,  the  discovery  of  Dr.  King,  of  the  United  States,  wliicli  occur  in 
Penns3'hania  in  the  middle  of  the  Coal  iNIeasures,  he  lias  determined  them 
to    56  tjjse  of  a  large  reptiliou.     It  does  seem  strange  enough  that  tha 


250  FIRST    IMPRESblONS    OF 

tions,  the  dynasty  of  the  Crustacea.  In  all  creation,  as  it  existi 
in  this  period  of  dusk  antiquity,  we  see  nothing  that  overtop- 
the  Trilehite,  with  his  jointed  mail  of  such  exquisite  workn-an 

priuts  of  this  eldest  of  reptiles  should  be  found  so  fir  in  advance  of  what 
has  been  long  deemed  the  vanguard  of  its  order,  —  the  thecodent  Snuriana 
of  tlie  Permian,  —  and  this,  too,  in  a  system  so  carefully  explored  as  the 
Coal  Measures  ;  and  yet  the  occurrence  is  not  without  a  parallel  in  tlia 
geologic  scheme.  The  mammal  of  the  Stonesfield  Slate  stands  as  much 
alone,  and  still  further  in  advance  of  its  fellows.  I  do  not  find  that  I  have 
anything  to  alter  in  my  statement  regarding  the  introduction  of  the  fish. 
In  Professor  Silliman's  American  Journal  for  January  J846,  it  is  stated, 
that  an  ichthyodorulite  had  been  just  discovered  in  the  Onondago  Lime- 
stone of  New  York,  and  an  imperfectly-preserved  fish-bone  in  the  Oris- 
kany  Sandstone  of  the  same  stite.  There  seems,  however,  to  be  no  reason 
to  conclude  from  their  contemporary  organisms,  —  chiefly  shells  and  cor- 
als, which  closely  approximate  to  those  of  the  Wenlock  Limestone,  —  that 
either  of  them  belonged  to  a  more  ancient  fish  than  the  ichthyodorulite 
de^^cribed  by  Mr.  Sedgwick,  to  which  I  have  already  had  occasion  to  refer. 
It  seems  not  unworthy  of  remark,  that  while  among  the  fish  of  tlie  Old 
Red  Sandstone  considerably  more  than  three-fourtlis  of  the  species,  and 
greatly  oiore  than  nineteen-twentieths  of  the  individuals,  are  of  the 
Ganoid  orcicr,  all  the  fish  of  the  Silurian  system  yet  discovered  are  Pla- 
coids.  [The  statement  here  regarding  the  absence  of  fisli  in  the  Lower 
Silurian,  wluch  I  retain  in  a  second  edition,  as  it  may  serve  to  indicate 
the  onward  march  of  geological  science,  was  in  accordance,  only  a  few 
months  ago,  when  the  first  edition  of  this  work  appeared,  with  what  wag 
known  of  the  more  ancient  rocks  and  their  fossils.  But  it  also  illustrates, 
like  my  statement  respecting  the  reptiles  of  the  Permian,  the  unsolid  char- 
acter of  negative  evidence,  when  made  the  basis  of  positive  assertion.  It 
is  now  determined  that  the  Lower,  like  the  Upper  Sdurian,  has  its  fish. 
"  Alas  for  one  of  my  generalizations,  founded  on  negative  evidence,  on 
Avliich  you  build  !  "  says  Sir  Roderick  Murchison,  in  a  communication 
which  I  owe  to  his  kindness.  "The  Lower  Silurian  is  no  longer  to  be 
viewed  as  an  invertebrate  period  ;  for  the  Onchus  (species  not  yetdecide^H 
has  bocn  found  in  Llandeilo  Flags,  and  in  the  Lower  Silurian  Rocks  of 
Bala.  Ik  one  respect  I  am  gratified  by  the  discover^'  ^  for  the  form  is  so 
very  like  that  of  the  Onchus  Murchisoni  of  the  Ludlow  Rocks,  that  it  is 
clear  the  Silurian  systejn  is  one  great  natural-history  series,  as  provetl, 
indeed,  by  all  its  other  organic  remains." —  Second  Edition.'] 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  251 

ship,  and  his  prominent  eye  of  many  facets,  that  so  capriciously 
refuses  to  admit  the  light  through  more  or  less  than  just  its 
four  hundred  and  ten  spherical  lenses.  The  Cephalopoda 
indeed,  may  have  held  with  him  a  divided  empire;  but  tho 
Brachiopoda,  the  Pteropoda,  the  Gasteropoda,  and  the  Ace- 
phala,  must  have  been  unresisting  subjects,  and  ail  must  have 
been  imp''cit  deference  among  the  Criiioidea,  the  Pennularia, 
the  Cora.t  and  the  Sponges.  As  we  sink  lower  and  lower, 
the  mine  of  organic  existence  waxes  unproductive  and  poor:  a 
few  shells  now  and  then  appear,  a  few  graptolites,  a  few 
sponges.  Anon  we  reach  the  outer  limits  of  life  :  a  void  and 
formless  desert  stretches  beyond,  and  dark  night  comes  dtwii 
upon  the  landscape. 


452  KIKST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


CHAPTER   Xlll. 

Hirmingham  ;  incessant  Clamor  ot  the  Place.  —  Toy-sliop  of  Britain  ;  Se 
rious  Character  of  the  Games  in  which  its  Toys  are  chiefly  employed. 
—  Museum.  —  Liberality  of  the  Scientific  English.  —  Musical  Genius 
of  Birmingham.  —  Theory.  —  Controversy  with  the  Yorkers.  —  Anec. 
dote.  —  The  English  Language  spoken  very  variously  by  the  English  , 
in  most  cases  spoken  very  ill.  —  English  Type  of  Person.  — Attend  a 
Puseyite  Chapel. —  Puseyism  a  feeble  Imitation  of  Popery.  —  Popisii 
Cathedral.  —  Popery  the  true  Resting-place  of  the  Puseyite.  —  Sketch 
of  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  Puseyite  Principle  ;  its  purposed  Object 
not  attained  ;  Hostility  to  Science.  —English  Funerals. 

The  sun  had  set  ere  I  entered  Birmingham  through  a  long 
low  suburb,  in  which  all  the  houses  seem  to  have  been  buill 
during  the  last  twenty  years.  Particularly  tame-looking  houses 
they  are ;  and  I  had  begun  to  lower  my  expectations  to  the 
level  of  a  flat,  mediocre,  three-mile  city  of  brick,  —  a  sort  of 
manufactory  in  general,  with  offices  attached,  —  when  the 
coach  drove  up  through  New-street,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  Town  Hall,  a  noble  building  of  Anglesea  marble,  of 
which  Athens  in  its  best  days  might  not  have  been  ashamed. 
The  whole  street  is  a  fine  one.  I  saw  the  lamps  lighting  up 
under  a  stately  new  edifice,  —  the  Grammar  School  of  King 
Edward  the  Sixth,  which,  like  most  recent  erections  of  any 
Dretension,  either  in  England  or  among  ourselves,  bears  the 
mediseval  stamp :  still  further  on  I  could  descry,  through  the 
darkening  twilight,  a  Roman-looking  building  that  rises  ovef 
the  market-place ;  and  so  I  inferred  that  the  humble  brick  of 
Birmingham,  singularly  abundant,  doubtless,  and  widely  spread, 
represents  merely  the  business  necessities  of  the  place;   and 


ENliLANU    ASD    ITS    PEOPLE.  5353 

that,  ivneri  on  any  occasiun  its  taste  conies  to  be  Jisplaypii,  it 
proves  :o  be  a  not  worse  ta.ste  than  that  shown  by  its  ne.ijtibors 
VV'nai  rirst  strucK  my  ear  as  peculiar  among  the  nuises  ul  a. 
lirge  town,  —  and  their  amount  here  is  singularly  great,—- 
was  what  seemed  to  be  somewhat  irregular  platoon-firing,  car- 
ried on,  volley  after  volley,  with  the  most  persistent  delibera- 
tion. The  sounds  came,  I  was  told,  from  the  "  proofing-house," 
—  an  iron-lined  building-  in  which  the  grunsmith  tests  his  mus- 
ket-barrels,  by  giving  them  a  quadruple  charge  of  powder  and 
ball,  and  then,  after  ranging  them  in  a  row,  firing  them  from 
outside  the  apartment  by  means  of  a  train.  Birmingham  pro- 
duces on  the  average  a  musket  per  minute,  night  and  day, 
throughout  the  year:  it,  besides,  furnishes  the  army  with  its 
swords,  the  navy  with  its  cutlasses  and  pistols,  and  the  busy 
writers  of  the  day  with  their  steel  pens  by  the  hundredweight 
and  the  ton ;  and  thus  it  labors  to  deserve  its  name  of  the 
"Great  Toy-shop  of  Britain,"  by  fashioning  toys  in  abundance 
for  the  two  most  serious  games  of  the  day,  —  the  game  of  war 
and  the  game  of  opinion-making. 

On  the  morrow  I  visited  several  points  of  interest  connected 
with  the  place  and  its  vicinity.  I  found  at  the  New  Cemetery, 
on  the  north-western  side  of  the  town,  where  a  party  of  Irish 
laborers  vvere  engaged  in  cutting  deep  into  the  hill-side,  a  good 
section,  for  about  forty  feet,  of  the  Lower  New  Red  Sandstone; 
but  its  only  organisms  —  carbonized  leaves  and  stems,  by  much 
too  obscure  for  recognition  —  told  no  distinct  story ;  and  so 
incoherent  is  the  enclosing  sandstone  matrix,  that  the  laborers 
dug  into  it  with  their  mattocks  as  if  it  were  a  bank  of  cla  p.  1 
glanced  over  the  Geological  Museum  attached  to  the  Birmiwg- 
ham  Philosophical  Institution,  and  found  it,  though  small, 
oeautifully  kept  and  scientifically  arranged.  It  has  its  few 
specimens  of  New  Red  Sandstone  fc  "sils,  chiefly  Vusidonomyg^ 
22 


254  FIRST    IMPRESSIOXS    OF 

from  the  upper  sandstone  band  which  overlies  he  salTeroui 
marls;  but  their  presence  in  a  middle  place  hero  between  the 
numerous  fossils  of  the  Carboniferous,  and  Oolotic  systems 
serves  but  to  show  the  great  poverty  in  organic  remains  of  the 
intermediate  system,  as  developed  in  England.  Though  of 
course  wholly  a  stranger,  I  found  free  admission  \o  both  the 
Dudley  and  Birmingham  Museums,  and  experienced,  with  but 
few  exceptions,  a  similar  liberality  in  my  visits  to  all  the  other 
local  collections  of  England  which  fell  in  my  way.  We  have 
still  great  room  for  improvement  in  this  respect  in  Scotland. 
We  are  far  behind  at  least  the  laymen  of  England, —  its  lib- 
eral mechanicians  and  manufacturers,  and  its  cultivators  of 
science  and  the  arts,  —  in  the  generosity  with  which  they 
throw  open  their  collections  ;  and  resemble  rather  that  portion 
of  the  English  clergy  who  make  good  livings  better  by  exhibit- 
ing their  consecrated  places,  —  not  too  holy,  it  would  seem,  to 
be  converted  into  show-boxes, —  for  paltry  twopences  and 
groats.  1  know  not  a  museum  in  Edinburgh  or  Glasgow,  sp'-e 
that  of  the  Highland  Society,  to  which  a  stranger  can  get 
access  at  once  so  readily  and  so  free  as  that  which  I  obtained, 
in  the  course  of  my  tour,  to  the  Newcastle,  Dudley,  Birming- 
ham and  British  Museums. 

Almost  all  the  larger  towns  of  England  manifest  some  one 
leading  taste  or  other.  Some  are  peculiarly  literary,  some 
decidedly  scientific ;  and  the  taste  paramount  in  Birmin.;ham 
£cems  to  be  a  taste  for  music.  In  no  town  in  the  world  are 
the  mechanical  arts  more  noisy:  hammer  rings  incessantly  on 
anvil;  there  is  an  unending  clang  of  metal,  an  unceasing 
•jlank  of  engines;  flame  rustles,  water  hisses  steam  roars,  and 
from  time  to  tirse,  hoarse  and  hollow  over  all.  rises  the  thunder 
of  the  proofing-house.  The  people  live  in  an  atmosphere  con- 
linually  vibrating  with  clamor;  and  it  wou  d  seem  as  if  thcii 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  255 

ftmusements  had  caught  the  general  tone,  and  become  noisy, 
like  their  avocations.  The  man  who  for  years  has  slept 
soundly  night  after  night  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  foundery, 
awakens  disturbed,  if  by  some  accident  the  hammering  ceases  : 
the  imprisoned  linnet  or  thrush  is  excited  to  emulation  by  even 
the  screeching  of  a  knife-grinder's  wheel,  or  the  din  of  a  copper- 
smith's shop,  and  pours  out  its  soul  in  music.  It  seems  not 
very  improbable  that  the  two  principles  on  which  these  phe- 
nomena hinge  —  principles  as  diverse  as  the  phenomena  them- 
selres  —  may  have  been  influential  in  inducing  the  peculiar 
characteristic  of  Birmingham  ;  that  the  noises  of  the  place, 
grown  a  part  of  customary  existence  to  its  people, —  inwrought, 
as  it  were,  into  the  very  staple  of  their  lives,  —  exert  over 
them  some  such  unmarked  influence  as  that  exerted  on  the 
sleeper  by  the  foundery;  and  that,  when  they  relax  from  their 
labors,  they  seek  to  fill  up  the  void  by  modulated  noises,  first 
caught  up.-like  the  song  of  the  bird  beside  the  cutler's  wheel 
or  coppersmith's  shop,  in  unconscious  rivalry  of  the  clang  of 
their  hammers  and  engines.  Be  the  truth  of  the  theory  what 
it  may,  there  can  be  little  doubt  regarding  the  fact  on  which  it 
hinges.  No  town  of  its  size  in  the  empire  spends  more  timt 
and  money  in  concerts  and  musical  festivals  than  Birmingham, 
no  small  proportion  of  its  people  are  amateur  performers; 
almost  all  are  musical  critics;  and  the  organ  in  its  great  Hall, 
the  property  of  the  town,  is,  with  scarce  the  exception  of  that 
of  York,  the  largest  in  the  empire,  and  the  finest,  it  is  sa'd, 
without  any  exception.  But  on  this  last  point  there  hangs  a 
keen  controversy. 

The  Yorkers  contend  that  Meir  organ  is  both  the  greater  ana 
the  finer  organ  of  the  two;  whereas  the  Birminghamers  assert, 
on  the  contrary,  that  theirs,  though  it  may  not  measuie  more, 
plays  v?stlv  better.     "  It   is   impossible,"   retort  the   Yorkers, 


256 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


"  that  it  can  play  even  equally  well ;  nay,  \  jre  it  even  aa 
large  ai  d  as  fine  an  organ,  —  which  it  is  not,  —  it  would  be 
inferior  bj'  a  half  and  more,  unless  to  an  instrument  such  as 
ours  you  could  add  a  Minster  such  as  ours  also."  —  "Ah," 
rejoin  the  Birminghamers,  "  fair  play  !  organ  to  organ  :  you  are 
coming  Yorkshire  over  us  now :  the  building  is  not  in  the  case 
at  issue.  You  are  surely  conscious  your  instrument,  single- 
handed,  is  no  match  for  ours,  or  you  would  never  deem  it 
necessary  to  back  it  in  this  style  by  so  imposing  an  auxiliary." 
But  the  argument  of  the  York  controversialists  I  must  give  in 
their  own  words  :  —  "  It  is  worse  than  idle  in  the  Birmingham 
people,"  say  the  authors  of  the  "  Guide  to  York  Minster,"  "  to 
boast  of  their  organ  being  unrivalled :  we  will  by  and  by  show 
how  much  it  falls  short  of  the  York  organ  in  actual  size.  But 
oven  were  their  instrument  a  fac  simile  of  ours,  it  would  not 
avail  in  a  comparison ;  for  it  would  still  lack  the  building, 
which,  in  the  case  of  our  magnificent  cathedral,  is  the  better 
half  of  the  organ,  after  all.  In  this,  old  Ebor  stands  unrivalled 
among  all  competitors  in  this  kingdom.  Even  in  the  noble 
cathedrals  that  are  dispersed  through  the  country,  no  equal  can 
be  found  to  York  Minster  in  dimensions,  general  proportions, 
grandeur  of  eflfect  to  the  eye,  and  the  sublimity  and  mellowness 
which  it  imparts  to  sound  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  such  a 
building  requires  an  instrument  of  vast  power  to  fill  it  with 
sound ;  but  when  it  is  filled,  as  with  its  magnificent  organ  it 
710W  is,  the  effect  is  grand  and  affecting  in  the  highest  degree 
and  yet  there  are  in  this  organ  matiy  solo  stops  of  such  beauti- 
fully vocal,  soft,  and  varied  qualities  of  tone,  as  actually  to 
regi  ire  (as  they  fascinatingly  claim  the  closest  attention  of 
the  listener.  We  beg  it  to  be  clearly  understood,  that  we  have 
not  the  slightest  intention  of  depreciating  the  real  merits  of 
vhe  Birmir  gham   organ,  as   it  is  confessedly  a  very  complete 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  25? 

and  splendid  Instrument;  but  when  we  notice  such  unscrupu- 
lous violations  of  truth  as  have  been  so  widely  disseminated, 
we  deem  it  a  duty  incumbent  upon  us  to  set  the  public  right." 
That  I  might  be  the  better  able  to  take  an  intelligent  part 
in  so  interesting  a  controversy,  —  a  controversy  in  which,  con- 
sidering the  importance  of  the  point  at  issue,  it  is  really  no 
wonder  though  people  should  lose  temper,  —  I  attended  a  musi- 
cal meeting  in  the  Town  Hall,  and  heard  the  great  organ.  The 
room  —  a  very  large  one  —  was  well  filled,  and  yet  the  organ 
was  the  sole  performer;  for  so  musical  is  the  community,  that 
night  after  night,  though  the  instrument  must  have  long  since 
ceased  to  be  a  novelty,  it  continues  to  draw  together  large 
audiences,  who  sit  listening  to  it  for  hours.  I  have  unluckily 
a  dull  ear,  and,  in  order  to  enjoy  music,  must  be  placed  in  cir- 
cumstances in  which  I  can  draw  largely  on  the  associative  fac- 
ulty; I  must  have  airs  that  breathe  forth  old  recollections,  and 
set  me  a  dreaming;  and  so,  though  neither  Yorker  nor  Bir- 
minghamer,  I  may  be  deemed  no  competent  authority  in  the 
organ  controversy.  I  may,  however,  at  least  venture  to  say, 
that  the  Birmingham  instrument  makes  a  considerably  louder 
noise  in  its  own  limited  sphere  than  that  of  York  in  the  huge 
Minster;  and  that  I  much  preferred  its  fine  old  Scotch  melo- 
dies,—  though  a  country  maiden  might  perhaps  bring  them 
cut  more  feelingly  in  a  green  holm  at  a  daes-lifting, —  to  the 
'great  Psalm-tune  "  of  its  rival.  When  listening,  somewhat 
awearied,  to  alternations  of  scientific  music  and  the  enthusias- 
tic plaudits  of  the  audience,  I  bethought  me  of  a  Birmingham 
musical  meeting  which  held  rather  more  than  a  century  ago, 
and  of  the  especial  plaudit  through  which  its  memory  has  been 
embalmed  in  an  anecdote.  One  of  the  pieces  performed  on  (he 
occa,sion  was  the  "  II  Penseroso  "  of  Milton  set  to  music  ;  but  it 
went  on  heavily,  till  the  well-known  couplet  ending 
22* 


258  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    0 

*'  Iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek  " 

Ht  once  elect). Red  the  meeting.  "  Iron  tears ! "  "Iron  tears!' 
Could  there  be  anything  finer  or  more  original  ?  T'.ars  made, 
of  iron  were  the  only  kind  of  iron  articles  not  m'-.riufactured  in 
Birmingham. 

J  visited  the  Botanic  Gardens  in  tho  neighborhood,  but 
fouf.d  them  greatly  inferior  to  those  of  Edinburgh ;  and  made 
several  short  excursions  into  the  surrounding  country,  merely 
to  ascertain,  as  it  proved,  that  unless  one  extends  one's  walk 
some  ten  or  twelve  miles  into  the  Dudley,  Hagley,  Droitwich, 
or  Hales  Owen  districts,  there  is  not  a  great  deal  worth  seeing 
to  be  seen.  Still,  it  was  something  to  get  the  eye  familiarized 
with  the  externals  of  English  life,  and  to  throw  one's  self  in 
the  way  of  those  chance  opportunities  of  conversation  with  the 
common  people,  which  loiterings  by  the  lanes  and  road-sides 
present.  My  ear  was  now  gradually  becoming  acquainted 
with  the  several  varieties  of  the  English  dialect,  and  my  eye 
A^ith  the  peculiarities  of  the  English  form  and  countenance. 
How  comes  it  that  in  Great  Britain,  and,  I  suppose,  everywhere 
else,  every  six  or  eight  square  miles  of  area,  nay,  every  little 
town  or  village,  has  its  own  distinguishing  intonations,  phrases, 
modes  of  pronunciation,  in  short,  its  own  style  of  speaking  the 
general  language,  almost  always  sufficiently  characteristic  tc 
mark  its  inhabitants  ?  There  are  not  two  towns  or  counties  in 
Scotland  that  speak  Scotch  after  exactly  the  same  fashion  ;  and 
.'  ncv  found,  in  the  sister  country,  varieties  of  English  quite 
as  maiked,  parcelled  out  into  geographical  patches  as  minute, 
in  woikmen's  barracks,  where  parties  of  mechanics,  gathered 
from  all  parts  of  the  country,  spend  the  greater  part  of  a 
twelvemonth  together  at  a  time,  I  have,  if  1  mistake  not, 
marked  these  colloquial  peculiarities  in  the  forming.     There 


ENGLAND   ANb    ITS    PEOPLE.  25\» 

Mi  few  men  '/ho  have  not  their  set  phrases  and  forms  of 
speci;h,  acquired  inadvertently,  in  most  cases  at  an  early  pe- 
rioil,  when  the  habit  of  giving  expression  to  their  ideas  is  in 
the  forming,  —  phrases  and  set  forms  which  they  learn  to  use 
a  good  deal  oftener  than  the  necessities  of  their  thinking 
require;  and  I  have  seen,  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  the 
peculiarities  of  this  kind  of  some  one  or  two  of  the  more 
intelligent  and  influential  mechanics  of  a  party,  caught  all 
unwittingly  by  almost  all  its  members,  and  thus  converted,  to 
a  considerable  extent,  into  peculiarities  of  the  party  itself;  and 
peculiar  tones,  inflections,  modes  of  pronunLiation,  at  first, 
mayhap,  chance-derived,  seem  at  least  equally  catching.  A 
single  stuttering  boy  has  been  known  to  infect  a  whole  class; 
and  no  young  person,  with  the  imitative  faculty  active  within 
him,  ever  spent  a  few  months  in  a  locality  distant  from  his 
home,  without  bringing  back  with  him,  on  his  return,  a  sensible 
twang  of  its  prevalent  intonations  and  idioms.  Of  course, 
when  the  language  of  a  town  or  district  difTers  greatly  from 
that  of  the  general  standard  of  the  country,  or  vei/  nearly 
approximates  to  it,  there  must  have  been  some  original  cause 
of  the  peculiarity,  which  imparted  aim  and  object  to  the  imi- 
tative faculty.  For  instance,  the  Scotch  spoken  in  Aberdeeh 
differs  more  from  the  pure  English  standard  than  that  of  any 
other  town  in  Scotland  ;  whereas  the  Scotch  spoken  in  Inver- 
ness, if  Sjotch  it  may  be  called,  most  nearly  approximates  tc 
it ;  and  we  may  detect  a  producing  cause  in  both  cases.  The 
common  dialect  of  Inverness,  though  now  acquired  by  the  ear, 
was  originally,  and  that  at  no  very  remote  perio'l,  the  book- 
taught  English  of  an  educated  Celtic  people,  to  waom  Gaelic 
was  the  mother  tongue;  while  in  Aberdeen  —  one  of  the  old 
Seats  of  learning  n  the  country,  and  which  seems  to  have  been 
brought,  in  con  p;  ratjvely  an  early  age,  under  the  influence  o^ 


260  FIRST    'MPRESSIONS    OF 

Ine  ancie  It  Scotch  literature —  .he  language  of  Barbour*  and 
Dunbar  got  a  firm  lodgment  among  the  educated  classes, 
which,  from  the  remoteness  of  the  place,  the  after  influence  of 
the  English  court  served  but  tardily  to  affect.  Obviously, 
in  some  other  cases,  the  local  peculiarity,  when  it  involves  a 
marked  departure  from  the  existing  standard,  has  to  be  traced, 
not  to  literature,  but  to  the  want  of  it.  But  at  least  the  great 
secondary  cause  of  all  such  peculiarities  —  the  invariable,  ever- 
operative  cause  in  its  own  subordinate  place  —  seems  to  be 
*hat  faculty  of  unconscious  imitation  universally  developed  in 
the  species,  which  the  philosophic  Hume  deemed  so  actively 
operative  in  the  formation  of  national  character,  and  one  of 
whose  special  vocations  it  is  to  transfer  personal  traits  and 
characteristics  from  leading,  influential  individuals,  to  septs 
and  communities.  Next  to  the  degree  of  surprise  that  a 
stranger  feels  in  England  that  the  language  should  be  spoker. 
so  variously  by  the  people,  is  that  of  wonder  that  it  should  in 
most  cases  be  spoken  so  ill.  Lord  Nugent,  in  remarking 
in  his  "  Lands  Classical  and  Sacred,"  that  "  the  English  lan- 
guage is  the  one  which  in  the  present  state  of  the  habitable 
globe — what  with  America,  India,  and  Australia  —  is  spoken 
by  the  greatest  number  of  people,"  guards  his  statement  by  a 
sly  proviso  ;  that  is,  he  adds,  if  we  recognize  as  English  "  what 
usually  passes  for  such  in  most  parts  of  Scotland  and  the 
United  States."  Really,  his  lordship  might  not  have  been 
so  particular.  If  the  rude  dialects  of  Lancashire,  Yorkshire 
and  Northumberland,  stand  muster  as  part  and  parcel  of  the 
language  written  by  Swift  and  Addison,  and  spoken  by  Burke 
and  Bolingbroke,  that  of  Old  Machar  and  Kentucky  may  be 
W3I  suffered  to  pass. 
I  had  entered  a  considerable  way  into  England  ^re  I  was 

*  Barbour  was  Arctdeacon  of  Aberdeen. 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  261 

Struck  by  the  pecuhanties  of  the  English  face  and  figure. 
Tliere  3  no  such  palpable  difference  between  the  borderers  of 
Northumberland  and  those  of  Roxburghshire  as  one  sometimts 
marks  in  the  inhabitants  of  contiguous  counties  in  Scotland 
itself;  no  such  difference,  for  instance,  as  obtains  between  the 
Celtic  population  of  Sutherland,  located  on  the  southern  side 
of  the  Ord  Hill,  and  the  Scandinavian  population  of  Caithness, 
located  on  its  northern  side.  But,  as  the  traveller  advances  on 
the  midland  counties,  the  English  cast  of  person  and  counte- 
nance becomes  very  apparent.  The  harder  frame  and  thinner 
face  of  the  northern  tribes  disappear  shortly  after  one  leaves 
Newcastle  ;  and  one  meets,  instead,  with  ruddy,  fleshy,  com- 
pactly-built Englishmen,  of  the  true  national  type.  There  is  a 
smaller  development  of  bone ;  and  the  race,  on  the  average, 
seem  less  tall :  but  the  shoulders  are  square  and  broad,  the 
arms  muscular,  and  the  chest  full ;  and  if  the  lower  part  of  the 
figure  be  not  always  in  keeping  with  the  upper,  its  mferiority 
is  perhaps  rather  an  effect  of  the  high  state  of  civilization  at 
which  the  country  has  arrived,  and  the  consequent  general 
pursuit  of  mechanical  arts  that  have  a  tendency  to  develop  the 
arms  and  chest,  and  to  leave  the  legs  and  thighs  undeveloped, 
han  an  original  peculiarity  of  the  English  as  a  race.  The 
English  type  of  face  and  person  seems  peculiarly  well  adapted 
to  the  female  countenance  and  figure  ;  and  the  proportion  of 
pretty  women  to  the  population  —  women  with  clear,  fair  com- 
plexions, weli-turned  arms,  soft  features,  and  fine  busts  —  seema 
very  great.  Even  the  not  very  feminine  employment  of  the 
naileresses  of  Hales  Owen,  though  hereditary  in  their  families 
for  generations,  has  failed  to  render  their  features  coarse  or 
their  forms  masculine.  To  my  eye,  however,  my  countrymen 
—  and  I  ha--3  now  seen  them  in  almost  every  district  of  Scot 
.»nd — prese  t  an  appearance  of  rugged  strength,  which  the 


202  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

Engj'sh,  though  they  tcke  their  place  among  th  i  more  robust 
European  nations,  do  not  exhibit;  and  I  find  the  carefully-con- 
structed tables  of  Professor  Forbes,  based  on  a  large  amount  of 
actual  experiment,  corroborative  of  the  impression.  As  tested 
b)r  the  dynamometer,  the  average  strength  of  the  full-grown 
Scot  exceeds  that  of  the  full-grown  Englishman  by  about  one- 
twentieth, —  to  be  sure,  no  very  great  difTerence,  but  quite 
enough,  in  a  prolonged  contest,  hand  to  hand,  and  man  to  man, 
with  equal  skill  and  courage  on  both  sides,  decidedly  to  turn 
the  scale.  The  result  of  the  conflict  at  Bannockburn,  where, 
according  to  Barbour,  steel  rung  upon  armor  in  hot,  close  fight 
for  hours,  and  at  Otterburn,  where,  according  to  Froissart,  the 
English  fought  with  the  most  obstinate  bravery,  may  have  a 
good  deal  hinged  on  this  purely  physical  difference. 

I  attended  public  worship  on  the  Sabbath,  in  a  handsome 
chapel  in  connection  with  the  Establishment,  which  rises  in  an 
juter  suburb  of  the  town.  There  were  many  conversion? 
taking  place  at  the  time  from  Puseyism  to  Popery  :  almost 
every  newspaper  had  its  new  list ;  and  as  I  had  learned  that 
the  clergyman  of  the  chapel  was  a  high  Puseyite,  I  went  to 
acquaint  myself,  at  first  hand,  with  the  sort  of  transition  faith 
chat  was  precipitating  so  much  of  the  altered  Episcopacy  of 
England  upon  Rome.  The  clergyman  was,  I  was  told,  a  char- 
itable, benevolent  man,  who  gave  the  poor  proportionally  much 
out  of  his  little,  —  for  his  living  was  a  small  one,  —  and  who 
was  exceedingly  diligent  in  the  duties  of  his  office  ;  but  his 
congregation,  it  was  added,  had  sadly  fallen  away.  The  high 
Protestant  part  of  it  had  gone  off  when  he  first  became  de- 
cidedly a  Puseyite ;  and  latterly,  not  a  few  of  his  warmer 
friends  had  left  him  for  the  Popish  cathedral  on  the  other  side 
of  the  to\^n.  The  hive  ecclesiastical  had  cast  ofT  its  two 
»v.'armS;  —  its  best  Protestants  and  its  best  Puseyites.     I  saw 


ENGLAND   AND   ITS    FECI  I.E.  203 

the  clergj'man  go  through  the  service  of  the  day,  and  deemed 
t  is  various  Piiseyistic  cmendatioiis  rather  poor  things  in  a  pic- 
torial point  of  vicnv.  They  reminded  nie  —  for  the  surrcunding 
atmosphere  was  by  much  too  clear  —  of  the  candle-light  deco- 
rations of  a  theatre,  when  submitted  to  the  blaze  of  day,  in  all 
the  palpable  rawness  of  size  and  serge,  ill-jointed  carpentiy, 
and  il'  ground  ochre.  They  seemed  sadly  mistimed,  too,  in 
coming  into  being  in  an  age  such  as  (he  present;  and  reminded 
one  of  maggots  developed  into  flies  by  artificial  heat  amid  the 
chills  ot  winter.  The  altar  stood  in  the  east  end  of  the  build- 
ing; there  was  a  golden  crucifix  inwM'ought  in  the  cloth  which 
covered  it ;  and  directly  over,  a  painting  of  one  of  our  Saviour's 
miracles,  and  a  stained  window.  But  (he  tout  ensemble  was 
by  no  mean.s  striking;  it  was  merely  fine  enough  to  make  one 
miss  something  finer.  The  clergyman  prayed  with  his  back 
to  the  people;  but  there  was  nothing  grand  in  the  exhibitior. 
of  a  back  where  a  face  should  be.  He  preached  in  a  surplice, 
too ;  but  a  surplice  is  a  poor  enough  thing  in  itself,  and  in  no 
degree  improves  a  monotonous  discourse.  And  the  appearance 
of  the  congregation  was  as  little  imposing  as  that  of  the  ser- 
vice :  the  great  bulk  of  the  people  seemed  drowsily  inattentive. 
The  place,  like  a  bed  of  residuary  cabbage-plants  twice  divested 
of  its  more  promising  embryos,  had  been  twice  thinned  of  its 
earnestness,  —  first  of  its  Protestant  earnestness,  which  had 
(lowed  over  to  the  meeting-house  and  elsewhere,  —  next  of  it& 
Puseyite  earnestness,  which  had  dribbled  out  into  the  cathedral; 
and  there  had  been  little  else  left  to  it  than  a  community  of 
what  I  «hall  venture  to  term  ca^-Christians,  —  people  whose 
uttachments  united  them,  not  to  the  clergyman  or  his  doctiines, 
but  simplj ,  like  those  of  the  domestic  cat,  to  the  walls  of  the 
building.  The  chapel  contained  the  desk  from  which  their 
banns  had  been  proclaniied,  and  the  font  in  which  their  children 


204  FIRST    IMPRESSTONS    OF 

had  been  baptized  :  and  the  comer  in  which  they  had  sat  for  so 
many  years  was  the  only  corner  anywhere  in  England  in  which 
they  could  fairly  deem  themselves  "  at  church."  And  so  there 
were  they  to  be  found,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  regardless  of  the 
new  face  of  doctrine  that  .flared  upon  them  from  the  pulpit. 
The  sermon,  though  by  no  means  striking  as  a  piece  of  com- 
position or  argument,  was  fraught  with  its  important  lesson. 
It  inscribed  the  "  Do  this  and  live  "  of  the  abrogated  covenant, 
so  congenial  to  the  proud  confidence  of  the  unsubdued  human 
heart,  on  a  substratum  of  that  lurking  fear  of  unforgiving  tres- 
pass, not  less  natural  to  man,  which  suggests  the  mediation  of 
the  merely  human  priest,  the  merit  of  penance,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  the  confessional.  It  represented  man  as  free  to  will 
md  work  out  his  own  salvation ;  but  exhibited  him  also  as  a 
very  slave,  because  he  had  failed  to  will  and  to  work  it.  It 
spoke  of  a  glorious  privilege,  in  which  all  present  had  shared, 
—  the  privilege  of  being  converted  through  baptism ;  but  left 
every  one  in  doubt  whether,  in  his  individual  case,  the  benefit 
lad  not  been  greatly  more  than  neutralized  by  transgression 
since  committed,  and  whether  he  were  not  now  in  an  im- 
mensely more  perilous  state  of  reprobation  than  if  he  had 
never  been  converted.  Such  always  is  the  vaulting  liberty  of 
a  false  theology,  when  held  in  sincerity.  Its  liberty  invariably 
"overleaps  itself,  and  falls  on  the  other  side."  It  is  a  liberty 
which  "  gendereth  to  bondage." 

I  next  visited  the  Popish  cathedral,  and  there  I  found  in  per- 
fection all  that  Puseyism  so  palpably  wanted.  What  perhaps 
first  struck  was  the  air  of  real  belief  —  of  credulity  all  awake 
and  earnest — which  characterized  the  congregation.  The 
mind,  as  certainly  as  the  body,  seemed  engaged  in  the  kneel- 
ings,  the  bowings,  the  responses,  the  crossings  of  the  person, 
und  the  dippings  of  the  finger-tip  m  the  holy  water.   It  was  the 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  205 

harvest  season,  and  the  passages  of  the  building  were  crowded 
with  Irish  reapers,  —  a  ragged  and  many-patched  assemblage 
Of  the  corresponding  class  in  England  and  Scotland,  Protest- 
antism has  no  hold,  —  they  have  broken  loose  from  her  con- 
trol ;  but  Popery  in  Ireland  has  been  greatly  more  fortunate  : 
she  is  peculiarly  strong  in  the  ignorant  and  the  reckless,  and 
formidable  in  their  possession.  In  the  services  of  the  cathedral 
everything  seemed  in  keeping.  The  altar,  removed  from  the 
congregation  by  an  architectural  screen,  and  enveloped  in  a 
dim  obscurity,  gave  evidence,  in  its  picturesque  solemnity, 
its  twinkhng  lights  and  its  circling  incense,  —  that  the  church 
to  which  it  belonged  had  fully  mastered  the  principles  of  effect. 
The  musically  modulated  prayer,  sounding  in  the  distance 
from  within  the  screen,  —  the  imposing  procession,  —  the  mys- 
terious genuflections  and  frequent  kneelings, — the  sudden 
music,  rising  into  paroxysms  of  melody  in  the  crises  of  the  pass- 
ing ceremony,  —  the  waving  of  the  smoking  censer,  —  the  toll 
Ing  of  the  great  bell  at  the  elevation  of  the  host,  —  all  spoke 
of  the  accumulative  art  of  more  than  a  thousand  years.  The 
trick  of  scenic  devotion  had  been  well  caught,  —  the  theatric 
religion  that  man  makes  for  himself  had  been  skilfully  made, 
riie  rites  of  Puseyism  seem  but  poor  shadows  in  comparison. 
—  mere  rudimentary  efforts  in  the  way  of  design,  that  but  serve 
to  beget  a  taste  for  the  higher  style  of  art.  I  did  not  wonder 
that  such  of  the  Puseyites  of  the  chapel  as  were  genuine  ad- 
mirers of  the  picturesque  in  religion  should  have  found  their 
\vay  to  the  cathedral. 

In  doctrine,  however,  as  certainly  as  in  form  and  ceremony 
the  Romish  church  constitutes  the  proper  resting-place  of  th-s 
Puseyite.  The  ancient  Christianity,  as  it  exists  in  the  Angli- 
can Church,  is  a  mere  inclined  slide,  to  let  him  down  into  i( 
It  furnis'ies  him  with  no  doctrinal  resting-place  of  its  own.  li' 
23 


266  FIRST    IMPRESSICNS    OF 

e  '•ery  form  of  Cliristianity  in  which  men  are  cames*  t.ere 
ii.ust  exist  an  infallibiUty  somewhere.  By  the  Episcopalian 
Protestant,  as  by  the  Presbyterian,  that  infallibility  is  reoog 
nized  as  resting  in  the  Scriptures;  and  by  the  consistent  Papist 
that  infallibility  is  recognized  as  resting  in  the  Church.  But 
where  does  the  infallibility  of  the  Puseyite  rest  ?  Not  in  the 
Scriptures;  for,  repudiating  the  right  of  private  judgment,  he 
is  necessarily  ignorant  of  what  the  Scriptures  truly  teach. 
Not  jn  tradition ;  for  he  has  no  trustworthy  guide  to  show  him 
where  tradition  is  right,  or  where  wrong.  Not  in  his  Church ; 
lor  his  Church  has  no  voice ;  or,  what  amounts  to  exactly  the 
same  thing,  her  voice  is  a  conflicting  gabble  of  antagonist 
sounds.  Now  one  bishop  speaks  after  one  fashion,  —  now 
another  bishop  speaks  after  another,  —  and  anon  the  queen 
speaks,  through  the  ecclesiastical  courts,  in  tones  difl^ering  from 
them  all.  Hence  the  emphatic  complaint  of  Mr.  Ward,  in  the 
published  letter  in  which  he  assigns  his  reasons  for  entering 
the  communion  of  Rome :  —  "He  can  find."  he  says,  "  no 
teaching"  in  the  English  Church ;  and  repudiating,  as  he  does, 
the  right  of  private  judgment,  there  is  logic  in  his  objection. 
•'If  we  reverence,"  he  argues,  "the  fact  of  the  apostolicity  of 
creeds  on  the  authority  of  the  English  Church,  so  far  as  we  do 
not  believe  the  English  Church  to  be  infallibly  directed,  exactly 
so  far  we  do  not  believe  the  creeds  to  be  infallibly  true."  Con- 
sistent Puseyism  can  find  its  desiderated  infallibility  in  Kornc 
only. 

The  rise  and  progress  of  this  corruption  in  the  Church  of 
England  oromises  to  form  a  curious  episode  in  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal histv.,.*y  of  the  age.  It  is  now  rather  more  than  ten  yeans 
.smce  V/higism,  yiGlding  to  the  pressure  of  rein vigora ted 
Popery,  suppressed  the  ten  Irish  bishoprics,  and  a  body  of 
palitic  -hurchmen  met  to  deliberate  how  best,  in  the  fiit»»*« 


ENGLAND  AND  TS  PEOPLE.  267 

such  deadly  aggressions  on  their  Church  might  be  wardel  oflf. 
They  saw  her  unwiekly  bulk  lying  in  a  state  of  syncope  before 
the  spoiler ;  and  concluded  that  the  only  way  to  save  was  tc 
rouse  and  animate  her,  by  breathing  !ntb  her  some  spirit  of 
life.  Unless  they  succeeded  in  stirring  her  up  to  defend  her- 
self, they  found  defence  would  be  impracticable :  it  was  essen- 
tial lo  the  protection  of  her  goods  and  chattels  that  she  should 
become  a  living  soul,  too  formidable  to  be  despoiled;  and,  in 
taking  up  their  line  of  policy,  they  seem  to  have  set  themselves 
as  coolly  to  determine  respecting  the  nature  and  kind  of  spirit 
which  they  should  breathe  into  her,  as  if  they  were  a  conclave 
of  chemists  deliberating  regarding  the  sort  of  gas  with  which  a 
balloon  was  to  be  inflated.  They  saw  two  elements  of  strength 
in  the  contemporary  Churches,  and  but  two  only,  —  the  Puri- 
tanic and  the  Popish  element;  and  making  their  choice  be- 
tween them,  they  selected  the  Popish  one  as  that  with  which 
the  Church  of  England  should  be  animated.*  On  some  such 
principle,  it  would  seem,  as  that  through  which  the  human 
body  is  enabled  to  resist,  by  means  of  the  portion  of  the  atmos- 
pheric air  within,  the  enormous  pressure  of  the  atmospheric 
air  without,  strength  was  sought  in  an  internal  Popery,  from 
the  pressure  of  the  aggressive  Popery  outside.  An  extensive 
and  multifarious  machinery  was  set  in  motion,  in  consequence 
of  the  determination,  with  the  scarce  concealed  design,  of  "  un- 
protestantizing  the  English  Church."  Ceremonies  less  imposing 
than  idle  were  introduced  into  her  services ;  altars  displaced  at 

*  I  am  fir  from  nssoi-tinp;  liere  tliiit  they  had  it  as  muoli  in  tlieir  power 
♦o  avail  tlieiiijclvcs  of  the  I'ui-itanic  as  of  the  I'opisli  element  ;  or  yet  that 
if  thoy  had.  any  mere  consideratiotis  of  policy  would  have  led  them  to 
adopt  it.  As  sliown  by  such  publications  as  "  Keble's  Saci-ed  Year,"  and 
"  Froud's  Remains,"  the  current  of  tendency  in  the  English  Church  had 
begun  to  flow  *br  several  years  previous  in  the  ir.ediaeval  channel,  au  I  the 
aiembei-3  of  this  meeting  had  already  got  afloat  on  the  stream 


26S  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

the  Reformation  were  again  removed  to  their  prescribed  site  in 
tlie  east ;  candles  were  lighted  at  noon-day ;  crucifixes  erected 
the  clergyman,  after  praying  with  his  back  to  the  people,  as- 
cended the  pulpit  in  his  surplice  to  expatiate  on  the  advantages 
of  the  confessional,  and  the  real  presence  in  the  sacrament ; 
enticing  pictures  were  held  up  to  the  suffering  poor,  of  the 
comforts  and  enjoyments  of  their  class  in  the  middle  ages ;  and 
the  pew-battle  was  fought  for  them,  that  they  might  be  brought 
under  the  inflaence  of  the  revived  doctrines.  To  the  aristoc- 
racy hopes  were  extended  of  a  return  to  the  old  state  cf  im- 
plicit obedience  on  the  part  of  the  people,  and  of  absolute 
authority  on  the  part  of  the  people's  lords :  the  whole  artillery 
of  the  press  was  set  in  requisition,  —  from  the  novelette  and 
poem  for  the  young  lady,  and  the  tale  for  the  child,  to  the 
high-priced  review  for  the  curious  theologian,  and  the  elaborate 
"  Tract  for  the  Times."  Nay,  the  first  journal  in  the  work 
was  for  a  season  engaged  in  advocating  the  designs  of  the 
party.  And  the  exertions  thus  made  were  by  no  means  fruit- 
less. The  unprotestantizing  leaven  introduced  into  the  mass 
of  the  English  Establishment  began  to  ferment,  and  many 
of  the  clergy,  and  not  a  few  of  the  laity,  were  infected. 

But  there  was  a  danger  in  thus  animating  with  the  Popish 
spirit  the  framework  of  the  English  Church,  on  which  the 
originators  of  the  scheme  could  not  have  fully  calculated.  It 
has  been  long  held  in  Scotland  as  one  of  the  popular  supersti- 
tions of  the  country,  that  it  is  a  matter  of  extreme  danger  to 
simulate  death,  or  personate  the  dead.  There  is  a  story  told 
in  the  far  north  of  a  young  fellow,  who,  going  out  one  night, 
wrapped  in  a  winding-sheet,  to  frighten  his  neighbors,  was 
met,  when  passing  through  the  parish  churchyard,  by  a  real 
ghost,  that  insisted,  as  their  vocation  was  the  same,  on  theii 
walking    together;    and  so  terrible,  says  the    story,  was   *hp 


hNGLAND  4ND  ITS  PEOPLE.  2G9 

sh  :ck  which  the  young  fellow  received,  that  in  t.  very  few  days 
he  had  become  a  real  ghost  too.  There  is  another  somewhat 
similar  story  told  of  a  lad  who  had,  at  a  lyke  wake,  taken  the 
place  of  the  corpse,  with  the  intention  of  rising  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  to  terrify  the  watchers,  and  was  found,  when  a 
brother  wag  gave  the  agreed  signal,  deaf  to  time ;  for  in  the  in- 
terval he  had  become  as  true  a  corpse  as  the  one  whose  stretch- 
ing board  he  had  usurped.  Now,  the  original  Puseyites,  in 
dressmg  out  their  clerical  brethren  in  the  cerements  of  Popery, 
and  setting  them  a-walking,  could  hardly  have  foreseen  that 
many  of  them  were  to  become  the  actual  ghosts  which  they 
had  decked  them  to  simulate.  They  did  not  know  that  the  old 
Scotch  superstition,  in  at  least  its  relation  to  them,  was  not  an 
idle  fancy,  but  a  sober  fact ;  and  that  these  personators  of  the 
dead  were  themselves  in  imminent  danger  of  death.  Some 
suspicion  of  the  kind,  however,  does  seem  to  have  crossed 
them.  Much  that  is  peculiar  in  the  ethics  of  the  party  appears 
to  have  been  framed  with  an  eye  to  the  uneasinesses  of  con- 
sciences not  quite  seared,  when  bound  down  by  the  require- 
ments of  their  position  to  profess  beliefs  of  one  kind,  and  by  the 
policy  of  their  party  to  promulgate  beliefs  of  another,  —  to  be 
ostensibly  Protestant,  and  yet  to  be  instant  in  season  and  out  of 
season  in  s\ibverting  Protestantism  ;  in  short,  in  the  language 
of  Mr.  Ward,  "to  be  Anglican  clergymen,  and  yet  hold  Roman 
Catholic  doctrine."  But  the  moral  sense  in  earnest  Puseyism  is 
proving  itself  a  too  tender  and  sensitive  thing  to  bear  with  the 
morality  vvhich  politic  Puseyism,  ere  it  gathered  heat  and  lit-:, 
had  prepared  for  its  use.  It  finds  that  the  English  Church  ih 
not  the  Church  of  Rome,  —  that  the  Convocation  is  not  thf 
Vatican,  nor  Victoria  the  Pope,  —  that  it  is  not  honest  to  sub 
vert  Prot  !stintism  under  c.oak  of  the  Protestant  nan)e,  nor  tu 
f'.UFier  m  its  ranks,  and  eat  its  bread,  when  in  the  service  of  iIih 
23* 


270  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OP 

eneiiy.  And  so  Jt  aseyism,  in  its  more  vital  scicns,  is  fast 
cea&ing  to  be  Puseyism.  The  newspapers  still  bear  their  lists 
of  conversions  to  Rome ;  and  thus  the  means  so  invidiously 
resorted  to  of  strengthening  the  English  Establishment  against 
Popery  is  fast  developing  itself  into  a  means  of  strengthening 
Popery  at  the  expense  of  the  English  Establishment. 

The  influence  on  science  of  this  mediaeval  Christianity,  so 
strangely  revived,  forms  by  no  means  the  least  curious  part  of 
its  history.  It  would  appear  as  if  the  doctrine  of  authority,  as 
taught  by  Puseyism  and  Popery, — the  doctrine  of  a  human 
infallibility  in  religious  matters,  whether  vested  in  Popes, 
Councils,  or  Churches,  —  cannot  coexist  in  its  integrity,  as  a 
real  belief,  with  the  inductive  philosophy.  It  seems  an  antag- 
onist force  ;  for,  wherever  the  doctrine  predominates,  the  phi- 
losophy is  sure  to  decline.  The  true  theologic  counterpart  tc 
(he  inductive  scheme  of  Bacon  is  that  Protestant  right  of  pri- 
vate judgment,  which,  dealing  by  the  word  of  God  as  the 
inductive  philosophy  deals  by  the  works  of  God,  involves  as 
its  principle  what  may  be  termed  the  inductive  philosophy  of 
theology.  There  is  certainly  nothing  more  striking  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  resuscitation  of  the  mediasval  faith  within  the  Eng- 
lish Church,  than  its  marked  hostility  to  scientific  truth,  aa 
exhibited  in  the  great  educational  institutions  of  England. 
Every  product  of  a  sound  philosophy  seems  disappearing 
under  its  influence,  like  the  fruits  and  flowers  of  the  earth 
when  the  chilling  frosts  of  winter  set  in.  But  it  is  impossible 
to  state  the  fact  more  strongly  than  it  has  been  already  stated 
by  Mr.  Lyell,  in  his  lately  published  "Travels  in  America." 
"  After  the  year  1839,"  he  says,  "  we  may  consider  three-fourths 
t'f  the  sciences  still  nominally  taught  at  Oxford  to  hav?  been 
virtually  exiled  from  the  university.  The  class-rooms  ot  the 
o~[)fessors  were  some  of  tbem  entirely,  others  nearly  deserted 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  271 

Chemistry  and  botany  attracted,  between  the  years  1840  and 
1S44,  from  three  to  seven  students ;  geometry,  astronomy,  and 
experimental  philosophy,  scarcely  more;  mineralogy  and  geol- 
ogy, still  taught  by  the  same  professor  who,  fifteen  years  be- 
fore, had  attracted  crowded  audiences,  from  ten  to  twelve  • 
political  economy,  still  fewer ;  even  ancient  history  and  poetry 
scarcely  commanded  an  audience ;  and,  strange  to  say,  in  a 
country  with  whose  destinies  those  of  India  are  so  closely 
bound  up,  the  first  of  Asiatic  scholars  gave  lectures  lu  one  or 
two  pupils,  and  these  might  have  been  absent,  had  not  th-^* 
cherished  hope  of  a  Boden  scholarship  for  Sanscrit  induced 
them  to  attend."  I  may  state,  in  addition,  on  the  best  author- 
ity, that  the  geological  professor  here  referred  to,  —  Dr.  Buck- 
land,  —  not  only  one  of  the  most  eminent  masters  of  his  science, 
but  also  one  of  the  most  popular  of  its  exponents,  —  lectured, 
during  his  last  course,  to  a  class  of  three.  Well  may  it  be 
asked  whether  the  prophecy  of  Pope  is  not  at  length  on  the  evp 
of  fulfilment :  — 

"  She  comes  !  she  comes  !  tlie  sable  throne  behold, 
Of  Night  primeval  and  of  Chaos  old, 
As,  one  by  one,  at  dread  Medea's  strain. 
The  sickening  stars  fade  olf  the  ethereal  plain,  — 
Aa  Argus'  eyes,  by  Hermes'  wand  oppressed, 
Close  one  by  one  in  everlasting  rest. 
Thus,  at  her  felt  approach  and  secret  might. 
Art  after  art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night." 

The  anti-scientific  influences  of  the  principle  have,  however, 
not  been  restricted  to  the  cloisters  of  the  university.  They 
have  been  creeping  of  late  over  the  surface  of  English  society 
ns  that  sulpliurous  fog  into  which  the  arch-fiend  in  Milton 
transformed  himself  when  he  sought  to  dash  creat'in  mto 
cliaos  crept  of  old  over  the  surface  of  Eden.     The   siugularl}' 


272  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

extended  front  of  opposition  presented  last  autumn  b}^  ihs 
newspaper  press  of  England  to  the  British  Association,  when 
holding  its  sittings  at  Southampton,  and  the  sort  of  running  fire 
kept  up  for  weeks  after  on  its  more  distinguished  members, — 
men  such  as  Sir  Roderick  Murchison,  Dr.  Buckland,  and  Mr. 
Lyell,  — siem  to  have  been  an  indirect  consequence  of  a  grow- 
ing influence  in  the  country  on  the  part  of  the  revived  super- 
stition. One  of  the  earliest  assaults  made  on  the  Association, 
as  hos'ile  in  its  nature  and  tendencies  to  religion,  appeared 
several  years  ago  in  the  leading  organ  of  Tractarianism,  the 
"  British  Critic  ;  "  but  the  "  Critic  "  in  those  days  stood  much 
alone.  Now,  however,  though  no  longer  in  the  field,  it  has 
got  not  a  few  successors  in  the  work,  and  its  party  many  an 
active  ally.  The  mediaeval  miasma,  originated  in  the  bogs 
and  fens  of  Oxford,  has  been  blown  aslant  over  the  face  of  the 
country;  and  not  only  religious,  but  scientific  truth,  is  to  ex- 
perience, it  would  seem,  the  influence  of  its  poisonous  blights 
and  rotting  mildews. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  how  the  revived  superstition 
of  the  middle  ages  should  bear  no  good  will  to  science  or  its 
institutions.  Their  influences  are  naturally  antagonistic.  The 
inductive  scheme  of  interrogating  nature,  that  takes  nothing 
for  granted,  and  the  deferential,  submissive  scheme,  that,  in 
ecclesiastical  matters,  yields  wholly  to  authority,  and  is  content 
though  nothing  should  be  proved,  cannot  well  coexist  in  one 
and  the  same  mind.  "  I  believe  because  it  is  impossible," 
says  the  devout  Mediasvalist ;  "  I  believe  because  it  is  demon- 
strable," says  the  solid  Baconian.  And  it  is  scarce  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  one  and  the  same  individual  should  be  a 
Baconian  in  one  portion  of  his  mind  and  a  Mediaevalist  in 
another,  —  that  in  whatever  relates  to  the  spiritual  and  eccle- 
siastical he  should  take  all  on  trust,  and  in  vvhatever  relates 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  27^ 

to  the  viable  anu  material,  believe  nothing  without  evidence. 
The  Baconian  state  of  mind  is  decidedly  anti-mediiEval  ;  and 
hence  the  avowed  Puseyite  design  of  unprotestantizing  the 
English  Church  finds  a  scarce  more  determined  enemy  in  the 
truth  elicitpd  by  the  enlightened  and  well-directed  study  of  the 
word  of  God,  than  in  the  habit  of  mind  induced  by  the  enlight- 
»)ned  and  well-directed  study  of  the  works  of  God.  Nor  is  it 
m  any  degree  matter  of  wonder  that  modern  Tractarianism 
should  on  this  principle  be  an  especial  enemy  of  the  Brit- 
ibh  Association,  —  an  institution  rendered  peculiarly  provok'ing 
by  its  peripatetic  propensities.  It  takes  up  the  empire  piece- 
meal, by  districts  and  squares,  and  works  its  special  efforts 
on  the  national  mind  much  in  the  way  that  an  agriculturist 
of  the  modern  school,  by  making  his  sheepfold-walk  bit  by 
bit  over  the  area  of  an  entire  moor,  imparts  such  fertility  to 
the  soil,  that  the  dry  unproductive  heaths  and  mosses  wear  out 
and  disappear,  and  the  succulent  grasses  spring  up  instead.  A 
similar  association  located  in  London  or  Edinburgh  would  be, 
to  borrow  from  Dr.  Chalmers,  a  scientific  institute  on  merely 
the  attractive  scheme  :  men  in  whom  the  love  of  science  had 
been  already  excited  would  seek  it  out,  and  derive  profit  and 
pleasure  in  that  communion  of  congenial  thought  and  fe<_Mng 
which  it  created  ;  but  it  could  not  be  regarded  as  a  great 
intellectual  machine  for  the  production  of  men  of  «c>ence,  and 
the  general  f  irmation  of  habits  of  scientific  inquiry.  But  the 
peripatetic  character  of  the  Association  constitutes  it  a  scien 
tific  institute  on  the  aggressive  system.  It  sets  itself  down  every 
year  in  a  new  locality;  excites  attention;  awakens  curiosity  ; 
furnishes  the  provincial  student  with  an  opportunity  of  compar- 
'ng  the  fruits  of  his  researches  with  those  of  labors  previously 
directed  by  resembling  minds  to  similar  walks  of  exploration 
eiwOiQ"  him  to  test  the  value  of  his  discoveries,  and  ascertain 


274  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

their  exact  degrees  of  originality;  above  all,  brings  hundreds: 
around  him  to  experience  an  interest  they  never  felt  before,  in 
questions  of  science  ;  imparts  facts  to  them  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, and  habits  of  observation  not  to  be  relinquished ;  in 
short,  communicates  to  all  its  members  a  disposition  ol  mind 
exactly  the  reverse  of  that  indolent  and  passive  quiescence  of 
mood  which  Puseyism  so  strongly  inculcates  by  homily  and 
novelette,  on  at  least  its  lay  adherents.  Truly,  it  is  by  no 
means  strange  that  the  revived  principle,  and  those  organs  of 
til 3  public  press  which  it  influences,  should  be  determined 
enemies  of  the  British  Association.  It  is,  however,  but  just 
to  add,  that  Tractarianism  and  its  myrmidons  have  not  been 
the  only  assailants.  Tractarianism  first  raised  the  fog,  but  not 
a  few  good  simple  people  of  the  opposite  party  have  since  got 
bewildered  in  it ;  and,  through  the  confusion  incident  on  losing 
their  way,  they  have  fallen  in  the  quarrel  into  the  ranks  of 
their  antagonists,  and  have  been  doing  battle  in  their  behalf.^ 

On  quitting  the  Puseyite  chapel,  I  met  a  funeral,  the  first  I 
had  seen  in  England.  It  was  apparently  that  of  a  person  in 
the  middle  walks,  and  I  was  a  good  deal  struck  with  its  dis- 
similarity, in  various  points,  to  our  Scotch  funerals  of  the  same 
class.  The  coffin  of  planed  elm,  finished  off  with  all  the  care 
usually  bestowed  on  pieces  of  household  furniture  made  of  the 
commoner  forest  hardwood,  was  left  uncolored,  save  on  the 
edges,  which,  like  those  of  a  mourning  card,  were  belted  with 
black.  There  was  no  pall  covering  it;  and,  instead  of  being 
borne  on  staves,  or  on  the  shoulders,  it  was  carried,  basket- 
like, by  the  handles.  An  official,  bearing  a  gilded  baton, 
narched  in  front;  some  six  or  eight  gentlemen  in  black  paced 
slowly  beside  the  bearers ;    a  gentleman   and    lady,  in    deep 

*  As  shown  by  the  assaults  on  the  Association  ol  such  organs  of  the 
^iow  Church  party  as  the  Dublin  "  Statesman  "  and  London  "  Record. 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  275 

mournirig,  walked  arm-in-arm  at  the  coffin-head ;  and  a  boy 
and  girl,  also  arm-in-arm,  and  in  mournirg,  came  up  behind 
them.  Such  was  the  English  funeral,  —  one  of  those  things 
which,  from  their  familiarity,  are  not  described  by  the  people 
of  the  country  to  which  they  belong,  and  which  prove  unfa- 
miliar, in  consequence,  to  the  people  of  other  countries.  On 
the  following  Monday  I  took  an  outside  seat  on  a  stage-coach, 
for  Stratford-or  -Avon. 


^7(i  FIK.ST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


I 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

Drive  from  Birmingham  to  Stratford  rather  tame.  —  Ancient  Buil  li  ig  in 
a  modern-looking  Street;  of  rude  and  humble  Appearance. —  "  The  Im- 
mortal Shakspeare  l)orn  in  this  House. "  —  Description  of  the  Interior.  — 
The  Walls  and  Ceiling  covered  with  Names.  —  Albums.  —  Shakspeare, 
Scott,  Dickens  ;  greatly  different  in  their  Intellectual  Stature,  but  yet 
all  of  one  Family.  —  Principle  by  which  to  take  their  Measure.  —  No 
Dramatist  ever  draws  an  Intellect  taller  than  his  own.  —  Imitative  Fac- 
ulty. —  The  Reports  of  Dickens.  —  Learning  of  Shakspeare.  —  New 
Place.  —  The  Rev.  Francis  Ga.strall.  —  Stratford  Church.  —  The  Poet's 
Grave  ;  his  Bust ;  far  superior  to  the  idealized  Representations.  —  The 
Avon.  —  The  Jubilee,  and  Cowper's  Description  of  it.—  The  true  Hero 
Worship.  —  Quit  Stratford  for  Olney.  —  Get  into  bad  Company  by  the 
way. —  Gentlemen  of  the  Fancy.  —  Adventure. 

The  drive  from  Birmingham,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  way, 
:  rather  tame.  There  is  no  lack  of  fields  and  hedge-rows, 
houses  and  trees;  but,  from  the  great  flatness  of  the  country, 
they  are  doled  out  to  the  eye  in  niggardly  detail,  at  the  rate  of 
about  two  fields  and  three  hedge-rows  at  a  time.  Within  a  few 
miles  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  however,  the  scenery  improves. 
We  are  still  on  the  Upper  New  Red  Sandstone,  and  on  this 
formation  the  town  is  built :  but  the  Lias  beyond  shoots  out, 
just  in  the  line  of  our  route,  into  a  long  promontory,  capped  by 
two  insulated  outliers,  that,  projected  far  in  advance,  form  the' 
outer  piquets  of  the  newer  and  higher  system ;  and  for  some 
four  or  five  miles  ere  we  enter  the  place,  we  coast  along  the 
tree-mottled  shores  of  this  green  headland  and  its  terminal 
islands.  A  scattered  suburb  introduces  us  to  a  rather  common- 
place-looking street  of  homely  brick  houses,  that  seem  as  if  they 
had  all  been  reared  within  the  last  half  century  ;  all,  at  least 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE  277 

save  one,  a  rud  3,  unf  ghtly  specimen  of  the  oal  framed  domi- 
cile of  the  days  of  Elizabeth  and  James.  Its  wall 5  are  incrusted 
with  staring  white-wash,  its  beams  carelessly  daubed  over 
with  lamp-black ;  a  deserted  butcher's  shop,  of  the  fifth-rate 
class,  with  the  hooks  still  sticking  in  the  walls,  and  the  sill-board 
slill  spread  out,  as  if  to  exhibit  the  joints,  occupies  the  ground- 
floor  ;  the  one  upper  story  contains  a  single  rickety  casement, 
with  a  forlorn  flower-pot  on  the  sill ;  and  directly  in  front  of 
the  building  there  is  what  seems  a  rather  clumsy  sign-board, 
hung  between  two  poles,  that  bears  on  its  weather-beaten  sur- 
face a  double  line  of  white  faded  letters  on  a  ground  of  black 
We  read  the  inscription,  and  this  humblest  ol  dwellings  - 
humble,  and  rather  vulgar  to  boot  —  rises  in  interest  over  the 
palaces  of  kings:  —  "The  immortal  Shakspeare  was  born  in 
this  house."  I  shall  first  go  and  see  the  little  corner  his  birth- 
place, I  said,  and  then  the  little  corner  his  burial-place  they 
are  scarce  half  a  mile  apart ;  nor,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than 
two  centuries,  does  the  intervening  modicum  of  time  between 
the  two  events,  his  birth  and  his  burial,  bulk  much  larger  than 
the  modicum  of  space  that  separates  the  respective  scenes  of 
them ;  but  how  marvellously  is  the  world  filled  with  the  cogi- 
tations which  employed  that  one  brain  in  that  brief  period! 
Could  it  have  been  some  four  pounds'  weight  of  convoluted 
matter,  divided  into  two  hemispheres,  that,  after  originating 
these  buoyant  immaterialities,  projected  them  upon  the  broad 
current  of  time,  and  bade  them  sail  onwards  and  downwards" 
forever?  I  cannot  believe  it:  the  sparks  of  a  sky-rocket  sui 
vive  the  rocket  itself  but  a  very  few  seconds.  I  cannot  believe 
that  these  thoughts  of  Shakspeare,  "  that  wander  through 
eternity,"  are  the  mere  spariis  of  an  exploded  rocket, —  the  mere 
sscint'lrions  of  a  little  galvanic  battery,  made  of  fibre  nnu 
24 


278  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

albumen,  like  that  of  the  toqjedo,  and  whose  ashes  \.   xild  now 
lie  in  the  corner  of  a  snuff-box. 

I  passed  through  the  butcher's  shop,  over  a  broken  stone 
pvement,  to  a  little  gloomy  kitchen  behind,  and  then,  under 
charge  of  the  guide,  up  a  dark  narrow  stair,  to  the  low-browed 
room  in  which  the  poet  was  born.  The  floor  of  old  oak,  much 
worn  in  the  seams,  has  apparently  undergone  no  change  since 
little  Bill,  be-frocked  and  be-booted  in  woolen  prepared  from  the 
rough  material  by  the  wool-comber  his  father,  coasted  it  along 
the  walls,  in  bold  adventure,  holding  on,  as  he  went,  by  tables 
and  chairs.  The  ceiling,  too,  though  unluckily  covered  up 
by  modern  lath  and  plaster,  is  in  all  probability  that  which 
stretched  over  the  head  of  the  boy.  It  presents  at  least  no 
indication  of  having  been  raised.  A  man  rather  above  the 
middle  size  may  stand  erect  under  its  central  beam  with  his 
hat  on,  but  with  certainly  no  room  to  spare ;  and  it  seems  more 
than  probable  that,  had  the  old  ceiling  been  changed  for  another, 
the  new  one  would  have  been  heightened.  But  the  walls 
have  been  sadly  altered.  The  one  window  of  the  place  is  no 
.onger  that  through  which  ShaJfspeare  first  saw  the  light ;  nor 
is  the  fireplace  that  at  which  he  stealthily  lighted  little  bits  of 
stick,  and  twirled  them  in  the  air,  to  see  the  fiery  points  con- 
verted  into  fiery  circles.  There  are  a  few  old  portraits  and  old 
bits  of  furniture,  of  somewhat  doubtful  lineage,  stuck  round  the 
room ;  and,  on  the  top  of  an  antique  cabinet,  a  good  plaster 
'•ast  of  the  monumental  bust  in  the  church,  in  which,  from  its 
greater  accessibility,  one  can  better  study  than  in  the  original 
the  external  signs  affixed  by  nature  to  her  mind  of  largest 
calibre.  Every  part  of  the  walls  and  ceiling  is  inscribed  with 
names.  I  might  add  mine,  if  I  chose,  to  the  rest,  the  woman 
told  me ;  but  I  did  not  choose  it.  Milton  and  Dryden  would 
iiave  added  theirs  :  he,  the  sublimest  of  poets,  who,  e'-e  criticism 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  279 

had  taken  the  altitude  of  the  great  writer  whom  he  so  fervently 
loved  and  admired,  could  address  him  in  the  fondness  of  youth- 
ful enthusiasm  as  "  my  Shakspeare  ;  "  and  he,  the  sympathetic 
critic,  who  first  dared  to  determine  that  "  of  all  modern,  and 
perhaps  ancient  poets,  Shakspeare  had  the  largest  and  most 
comprehens  ve  soul."  Messrs.  Wiggins  and  Tims,  too,  would 
have  added  their  names ;  and  all  right.  They  might  not 
exactly  see  for  themselves  what  it  was  that  rendered  Shaks- 
peare so  famous ;  but  their  admiration,  entertained  on  trust, 
would  be  at  least  a  legitimate  echo  of  his  renown ;  and  so  their 
names  would  have  quite  a  right  to  be  there  as  representatives 
of  the  outer  halo  —  the  second  rainbow,  if  I  may  so  express 
myself — of  the  poet's  celebrity.  But  I  was  ashamed  to  add 
mine.  I  remembered  that  I  was  a  writer ;  that  it  was  my 
business  to  write,  —  to  cast,  day  after  day,  shavings  from  off 
my  mind,  —  the  figure  is  Cowper's,  —  that  went  rolling  away, 
crisp  and  dry,  among  the  vast  heap  already  on  the  floor,  and 
were  never  more  heard  of;  and  so  I  didn't  add  my  name. 
The  woman  pointed  to  the  album,  or  rather  set  of  albums, 
which  form  a  record  of  the  visiters,  and  said  her  mother  could 
have  turned  up  for  me  a  great  many  names  that  strangers  liked 
to  look  at ;  but  the  old  woman  was  confined  to  her  bed,  and 
-ihe,  considerably  less  at  home  in  the  place,  could  show  me  only 
a  few.  The  first  she  turned  up  was  that  of  Sir  Walter  Scott ; 
the  second,  that  of  Charles  Dickens.  "  You  have  done  remark 
ably  well,"  1  said  "your  mother  couldn't  have  done  better. 
Now,  shut  the  book." 

It  was  a  curious  coincidence,  Shakspeare,  Scott  Dickens ! 
The  scale  is  a  descending  one ;  so  is  the  scale  from  the  lion  t*^ 
the  leopard,  and  from  the  leopard  to  the  tiger-cat ;  but  cat, 
leopard,  and  ion,  belong  to  one  great  family;  and  these  threti 
pcets  belong  unequivocally  to  one  great  family  also.     They  are 


280  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    (.  ? 

generica.ly  one ;  masters,  each  in  his  own  sphere,  not  shnpl\ 
of  the  ar*  of  exhibiting  character  in  the  truth  of  nature,  —  foi 
that  a  Hume  or  a  Tacitus  may  possess,  —  but  of  the  rarer  and 
more  difficult  dramatic  art  of  making  characters  exhibit  them- 
selves. It  is  not  uninstructive  to  remark  how  the  peculiar 
ability  of  portraying  character  in  this  form  is  so  exactly  propor- 
tioned to  the  general  intellectual  power  of  the  writer  who 
possesses  it.  No  dramatist,  whatever  he  may  attempt,  ever 
draws  taller  men  than  himself:  as  water  in  a  bent  tube  rises  to 
exactly  the  same  height  in  the  two  limbs,  so  intellect  in  the 
character  produced  rises  to  but  the  level  of  the  intellect  of  the 
producer.  Milton's  fiends,  with  all  their  terrible  strength  and 
sublimity,  are  but  duplicates  of  the  Miltonic  intellect  united  to 
vitiated  moral  natures ;  nor  does  that  august  and  adorable 
Being,  who  perhaps  should  not  have  been  dramatically  intro- 
duced into  even  the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  excel  as  an  intelligence 
the  too  daring  poet  by  whom  he  is  exhibited.  Viewed  with 
reference  to  this  simple  rule,  the  higher  characters  of  Scott, 
Dickens,  and  Shakspeare,  curiously  indicate  the  intellectual 
stature  of  the  men  who  produced  them.  Scott's  higher  char- 
acters possess  massive  good  sense,  great  shrewdness,  much 
intelligence  :  they  are  ahvays  very  superior,  if  not  always  great 
men ;  and  by  a  careful  arrangement  of  drapery,  and  much 
study  of  position  and  attitude,  they  play  their  parts  wonderfully 
well.  The  higher  characters  of  Dickens  do  not  stand  by  any 
means  so  high ;  the  fluid  in  the  original  tube  rests  at  a  lowei 
level :  and  no  one  seems  better  aware  of  the  fact  than  Dickens 
himself.  He  knows  his  proper  walk  ;  and,  content  with  expati- 
ating in  a  comparatively  humble  province  of  human  life  and 
character,  rarely  stands  on  tiptoe,  in  the  vain  attempt  to  portray 
an  intellect  taller  than  his  own.  The  intellectual  stature  of 
S  akspeare  rises,  on  the  other  hand,  to  the  highest  level  '^i 


ENGLAND    ANP     ITS    PEOPLK.  28  . 

man.  His  range  incudes  the  loftiest  and  the  lowest  chaniclers, 
and  takes  in  all  between.  There  was  no  human  greatness 
which  he  could  not  adequately  conceive  and  portray  ;  whether 
it  was  a  purely  intellectual  greatness,  as  in  Hamlet ;  or  a  purely 
constitutional  greatness,  —  forceful  and  massive,  —  as  in  Corio- 
lanus  and  Othello  ;  or  a  happy  combination  of  both,  as  in  Julius 
Caesar.  He  could  have  drawn  with  equal  effect,  had  he  flour- 
ished in  an  after  period,  the  Lord  Protector  of  England  and  the 
Lord  Protector's  Latin  secretary ;  and  men  would  have  recog- 
nized the  true  Milton  in  the  one,  and  the  genuine  Cromwell  in 
the  other. 

It  has  frequently  occurred  to  me,  that  the  peculiar  dramatic 
faculty  developed  so  prominently  in  these  tiiree  authors,  that, 
notwithstanding  their  disparities  of  general  intellect,  we  regard 
it  as  constituting  their  generic  stamp,  and  so  range  them  to- 
gether in  one  class,  seems,  in  the  main,  rather  a  humble  one, 
when  dissociated  from  the  auxiliary  faculties  that  exist  in  the 
mind  of  genius.  Like  one  of  our  Scotch  pebbles,  so  common 
in  some  districts,  in  their  rude  state,  that  they  occur  in  almost 
every  mole-hill,  it  seems  to  derive  nearly  all  its  value  and  beauty 
from  the  cutting  and  the  setting.  A  Shakspeare  without  genius 
would  have  been  merely  the  best  mimic  in  Stratford.  He 
would  have  caught  every  peculiarity  of  character  exhibited  by 
his  neighbors,  —  every  little  foible,  conceit,  and  awkwardness, 
—  every  singularity  of  phrase,  tone,  and  gesture.  However  little 
heeded  when  he  spoke  in  his  own  character,  he  would  be  deemed 
worthy  of  attention  when  he  spoke  in  the  character  of  others ; 
for  whatever  else  his  vira  voce  narratives  might  want,  they 
would  be  at  least  rich  in  the  dramatic;  men  would  recognize 
in  his  imitations  peculiarities  which  they  had  failed  to  remark 
in  the  originals,  but  which,  when  detected  by  the  keen  eye  of  the 
inimia  would  delight  them,  as  "  natural  though  not  obvious 
24* 


2S2  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

and  though,  pprhaps,  regarded  not  without  fear,  he  would  if 
all  events,  be  deemed  a  man  of  infinite  amusement.  But  to  this 
imitative  faculty,  —  this  mere  perception  of  the  peculiarities  that 
confer  on  men  th:)  stamp  of  individuality,  —  there  was  added  a 
world-wide  invention,  an  intellect  of  vastest  calibre,  depths  un- 
sounded of  the  poetic  feeling,  with  a  breadth  of  sympathy  which 
embraced  all  nature  ;  and  the  aggregate  was  a  Shakspeare.  I 
have  seen  this  imitative  ability,  so  useless  in  the  abstract,  ren- 
dered valuable  by  being  set  in  even  veiy  humble  literary  attain- 
ment,—  that  of  the  newspaper  reporter;  and  have  had  to  esti- 
mate at  a  different  rate  of  value  the  respective  reports  of  gentle- 
men of  the  press,  equal  in  their  powers  of  memory  and  in  gen- 
eral acquirement,  and  unequal  merely  in  the  degree  in  which 
they  possessed  the  imitative  faculty.  ..  In  the  reports  of  the  one 
class  I  have  found  but  the  meaning  of  the  speakers;  in  those 
of  the  other,  both  the  meaning  and  the  speakers  too.  Dickens, 
ere  he  became  the  most  popular  of  living  English  authors,  must 
have  been  a  first-class  reporter ;  and  the  faculty  that  made 
him  so  is  the  same  which  now  leads  us  to  speak  of  him  in  the 
same  breath  with  Shakspeare.  Bulwer  is  evidently  a  man  of 
great  reflective  power ;  but  Bulwer,  though  a  writer  of  novels 
and  plays,  does  not  belong  to  the  Shakspearian  genus.  Like 
those  dramatists  of  English  literature  that,  maugre  their  play- 
writmg  propensities,  were  not  dramatic, — the  Drydens  and 
Thomsons  of  other  days,  —  he  lacks  the  imitative  power.  By 
the  way,  in  this  age  of  books,  I  marvel  no  bookseller  has  ever 
thought  of  presenting  the  public  with  the  Bow-street  reports 
of  Dickens.  They  would  form  assuredly  a  curious  work,  —  not 
less  so,  though  on  a  different  principle,  than  the  Parliamentary 
reports  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

No  one  need  say  what  sort  of  a  building  the  church  of  Strat- 
f>rd-onAvon  is;  no  other  edifice  in  the  kingdom  ha     half  so 


ENGLAND    AND    IIS    PEOPLE.  283 

often  Mnployed  the  pencil  and  the  burin.  I  may  just  remark, 
however,  that  it  struck  me  at  a  little  distance,  rising  among  its 
graceful  trees,  beside  its  quiet  river,  as  one  of  the  finest  old 
English  churches  I  had  yet  seen.  One  passes,  in  approach- 
ing it  from  the  poet's  birthplace,  through  the  greater  part  of 
Stratford.  We  see  the  town-hall,  a  rather  homely  building, 
—  the  central  point  of  the  bizarre  Jubilee  Festival  of  1769, — 
with  a  niche  in  front  occupied  by  a  statue  of  Shakspeare 
presented  to  the  town  by  David  Garrick,  the  grand  master  of 
ceremonies  on  the  occasion.  We  then  pass  a  lane,  which  lead.s 
"down  to  the  river,  and  has  a  few  things  worth  looking  at  or. 
either  hand.  There  is  an  old  Gothic  chapel  on  the  one  side, 
with  so  ancient  a  school  attached  to  it,  that  it  existed  as  such 
in  the  days  of  the  poet's  boyhood  ;  and  in  this  school,  it  is  sup- 
posed, he  may  have  acquired  the  little  learning  that  served 
fairly  to  enter  him  on  his  after-course  of  world-wide  attain- 
ment. Little,  I  suppose,  would  have  served  the  purpose  :  a 
given  knowledge  of  the  alphabet,  an^  of  the  way  of  compound- 
ing its  letters  into  words,  as  his  premises,  would  have  enabled 
the  little  fellow  to  work  out  the  rest  of  the  problem  for  him- 
self. There  has  been  much  written  on  the  learning  of  Shak- 
speare, but  not  much  to  the  purpose:  one  of  our  old  Scotch  prov- 
erbs is  worth  all  the  dissertations  on  the  subject  I  have  yet  seen. 
'  God's  bairns,"  it  says,  "  are  eath  to  lear"  i.  e.  easily  instructed. 
Shakspeare  must,  I  suppose,  have  read  many  more  books  than 
Homer  (we  may  be  sure,  every  good  one  that  came  in  his  way, 
and  some  bad  ones),  and  yet  Homer  is  held  to  have  known  a 
thing  or  two  :  the  more  ancient  poet  was  unquestionably  aa 
ignorant  of  English  as  the  more  modern  one  of  Greek  ;  and  as 
the  one  produced  the  "Iliad  "  without  any  acquaintance  with 
"  Hamlet  ■'  I  do  not  see  why  the  other  might  not  have  produced 
•  Han. let     without  any  acquaintance  with  the  "Iliad."     ToVm 


284  FIRST    IMPRESSION"*    OF 

sor  vas  quite  in  the  right  in  holding  that,  though  the  wrltiuga 
of  Shakspeare  exhibit  "  much  knowledge,  it  is  often  such  knowl- 
edge as  books  did  not  supply."  He  might  have  added  further, 
that  the  knowledge  they  display,  which  books  did  supply,  is  of 
a  kind  which  might  be  all  found  in  English  books  at  the  time, 

—  fully  one-half  of  it,  indeed,  in  the  romances  of  the  period. 
Every  great  writer,  in  the  department  in  which  he  achieves 
his  greatness,  whether  he  be  a  learned  Milton  or  an  unlearned 
Burns,  is  self-taught.  One  stately  vessel  may  require  much 
tugging  ere  she  gets  fairly  off  the  beach,  whereas  another  may 
float  off,  unassisted,  on  the  top  of  the  flowing  tide ;  but  when 
once  fairly  prosecuting  their  voyage  in  the  open  sea,  both  must 
alike  depend  on  the  spread  sail  and  the  guiding  rudder,  on  the 
winds  of  heaven  and  the  currents  of  the  deep. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  lane,  directly  fronting  the  chapel, 
and  forming  the  angle  where  lane  and  street  unite,  there  is  a 
plain  garden-wall,  and  an  equally  plain  dwelling-house ;  and 
these  indicate  the  site  of  ^hakspeare's  domicile,  —  the  aristo- 
cratic mansion,  —  one  of  the  "greatest,"  it  is  said,  in  Stratford, 

—  which  the  vagrant  lad,  who  had  fled  the  country  in  disgrace, 
returned  to  purchase  for  himself,  when  still  a  young  man, — 
no  longer  a  vagrant,  however,  and  "  well  to  do  in  the  world." 
The  poet's  wildnesses  could  not  have  lain  deep  in  his  nature, 
or  he  would  scarce  have  been  a  wealthy  citizen  of  Stratford  in 
his  thirty-third  year.     His  gardens  extended  to  the  river  side, 

—  a  distance  of  some  two  or  three  hundred  yards;  and  doubt- 
.ess  the  greater  part  of  some  of  his  later  dramas  must  have  been 
written  amid  their  close  green  alleys  and  straight-lined  walks, 

—  for  they  are  said  to  have  been  quaint,  rich,  and  formai,  in 
litccordance  with  the  taste  of  the  period  ;  and  so  comfortable  a 
mansion  was  the  domicile  that,  in  1643,  Queen  Henrietta,  when 
kt  Stratford  with  the  royalist  army,  made  it  her  place  of  resi- 


I 


ENGLAND  AND  IPS  PEOPLE.  2S5 

donee  for  three  weeks.  I  need  scarce  tell  its  subsequent  story 
After  passing  through  several  hands,  it  was  purchased,  about 
the  middle  of  the  last  century,  by  the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrall, — 
a  nervous,  useless,  ill-conditioned  man,  much  troubled  by  a  bad 
stomach  and  an  unhappy  temper  The  poet's  mulberry-tree 
had  become  ere  now  an  object  of  interest ;  and  his  reverence, 
to  get  rid. of  the  plague  of  visiters,  cut  it  down  and  chopped  it 
into  fagots.  The  enraged  people  of  the  town  threw  stones  and 
broke  his  reverence's  windows  ;  and  then,  to  spite  them  still 
more,  and  to  get  rid  of  a  poor-rate  assessment  to  boot,  he  pulled 
down  the  poet's  house.  And  so  his  reverence's  name  shares, 
in  consequence,  in  the  celebrity  of  that  of  Shakspeare,  —  "  pur- 
sues the  triumph  and  partakes  the  gale."  The  Rev.  Francis 
Gastrall  must  have  been,  1  greatly  fear,  a  pitiful  creature  ;  and 
the  clerical  prefix  in  no  degree  improves  the  name. 

The  quiet  street  gets  still  quieter  as  one  approaches  the 
church.  We  see  on  either  side  a  much  greater  breadth  of 
garden-walls  than  of  houses, —  walls  with  the  richly-fruited 
branches  peeping  over  ;  and  at  the  churchyard  railing,  thickly 
overhung  by  trees,  there  is  so  dense  a  mass  of  foliage,  that  of 
the  church,  which  towers  so  high  in  the  distance,  we  can  dis- 
cern no  part  save  the  door,  A  covered  way  of  thick  o'erarch- 
mg  limes  runs  along  the  smooth  flat  gravestones  from  gateway 
to  doorway.  The  sunlight  was  streaming  this  day  in  many  a 
fantastic  patch  on  the  lettered  pavement  below,  though  the  check- 
ering of  shade  predominated  ;  but  at  the  close  of  the  vista 
the  Gothic  door  opened  dark  and  gloomy,  in  the  midst  of  broad 
sunshine.  The  Avon  flows  past  the  churchyard  wall.  One 
may  drop  a  stone  at  arm's  length  over  the  edge  of  the  p  jrap(?t 
into  four  feet  v^atet  and  look  down  on  shoals  of  tiny  fish  in  play 
around  the  sedges.  I  entered  the  silent  church,  and  passed 
a'^ng  its  rows  of  oil'  oak  pews,  on  to  the  chancel.     The  shad 


280  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

o^7s  oi  the  trees  ou!.side  were  projected  dark  against  the  wia 
dows,  and  the  numerous  marbles  of  the  place  glimmered  cold 
ind  sad  in  the  thickened  light.  The  chancel  is  raised  a  single 
step  over  the  floor,  —  a  step  some  twelve  or  fourteen  inches  in 
height;  and,  ranged  on  end  along  its  edge,  just  where  the 
ascending  foot  would  rest,  there  lie  three  flat  tombstones.  One 
of  these  covers  the  remains  of  "  William  Shakspeare,  Gentle- 
man ;"  the  second,  the  remains  of  his  wife,  Anne  Hathaway ; 
while  the  third  rests  over  the  dust  of  his  favorite  daughter 
Susanna,  and  her  husband  John  Hall.  And  the  well-known 
monument  —  in  paley  tints  of  somewhat  faded  white  lead  — 
is  fixed  in  the  wall  immediately  above,  at  rather  more  than  a 
man's  height  from  the  floor. 

At  the  risk  of  being  deemed  sadly  devoid  of  good  taste,  I 
must  dare  assert  that  I  better  like  the  homely  monumental 
bust  of  the  poet,  low  as  is  its  standing  as  a  work  of  art,  than  all 
the  idealized  representations  of  him  which  genius  has  yet  trans- 
ferred to  marble  or  canvas.  There  is  more  of  the  true  Shak- 
speare in  it.  Burns  complained  that  the  criticisms  of  Blair,  if 
adopted,  would  make  his  verse  "  too  fine  for  either  warp  or 
woof;"  and  such  has  been  the  grand  defect  of  the  artistic  ideal- 
isms which  have  been  given  to  the  world  as  portraits  of  the 
dramatist.  They  make  him  so  prett)^  a  fellow,  all  redolent  of 
poetic  odors,  "  shining  so  brisk  "  and  "  smelling  so  sweet,"  like 
the  fop  that  annoyed  Hotspur,  that  one  seriously  asks  if  such  a 
person  could  ever  have  got  through  the  vvorld.  No  such  type 
of  man,  leaving  Stratford  penniless  in  his  twenty-first  year, 
would  have  returned  in  his  thirty-third  to  purchase  the  "capi- 
tal messuage "  of  New  Place,  "  with  all  the  appurtenances," 
and  to  take  rank  ;  nid  the  magnates  of  his  native  town.  The 
poet  of  the  artist  would  never  have  oeen  "William  Shak- 
loeire   Gerdleinan,    nor  wo:ild  his  burying-ground  have  lain  in 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    ItOPLE.  2S7 

the  chancel  of  his  parish  church.  About  the  Shakspeare  of 
the  stone  bust,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a  purpose-like  strength 
and  solidity.  The  head,  a  powerful  mass  of  brain,  would 
require  all  Dr.  Chalmers'  hat ;  the  forehead  is  as  broad  as  that 
of  the  doctor,  considerably  taller,  and  of  more  general  capacity; 
and  the  whole  countenance  is  that  of  a  shrewd,  sagacious, 
kindly-tempered  man,  who  could,  of  course,  be  poetical  when 
he  willed  it,  —  vastly  more  so,  indeed,  than  anybody  else, — 
but  who  mingled  wondrous  little  poetry  in  the  management 
of  his  every-day  business.  The  Shakspeare  of  the  stone  bust 
could,  with  a  very  slight  training,  have  been  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer:  and  in  opening  the  budget,  his  speech  would  em- 
body many  of  the  figures  of  Cocker,  judiciously  arranged,  but 
not  one  poetical  figure. 

On  quitting  the  church,  I  walked  for  the  better  part  ot  two 
miles  upwards  along  the  Avon,  —  first  on  the  Stratford  side  to 
the  stone  bridge,  which  I  crossed,  and  then  on  the  side  oppo- 
site, through  quiet,  low-lying  meadows,  bordered  by  fields.  Up 
to  the  bridge  the  stream  is  navigable,  and  we  may  see  the  occa- 
sional sail  gleammg  white  amid  the  green  trees,  as  it  glides 
past  the  resting-place  of  the  poet.  But  on  the  upper  side  there 
are  reaches  through  which  even  a  slight  shallop  would  have 
difficulty  in  forcing  her  way.  The  bulrush  attains,  in  the  soft 
oozy  soil  that  forms  the  sides  and  bottom  of  the  river,  to  a  great 
size:  I  pulled  stems  from  eight  to  ten  feet  in  height;  and  in 
the  flatter  inflections,  where  the  current  stagnates,  it  almost 
chokes  up  the  channel  from  side  to  side.  Here  it  occurs  \v. 
tall  hedge-like  fringes  that  line  and  overtop  the  banks,  —  there, 
ill  island-like  patches,  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  —  yonder, 
in  diffused  transverse  thickets,  that  seem  to  connect  the  fringes 
on  the  one  side  with  the  fringes  on  tht  other.  I  have  rarely 
seen  anything  in  liv'og  nature  —  nature  recent   and   vital-- 


288  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

that  better  enabled  me  to  realize  the  luxuriant  aquatic  vegeta 
tion  of  the  Coal  Measures.  The  unbroken  stream  dimpler 
amid  the  rushes ;  in  the  opener  depths  we  may  mark,  as  some 
burnished  fly  flutters  along  the  surface,  the  sullen  plunge  of 
the  carp ;  the  eel,  startled  by  the  passing  shadow,  wriggles 
outward  from  its  bank  of  mud;  while  scores  of  careless  gudg- 
eons, and  countless  shoals  of  happy  minnows,  dart  hither  and 
thither,  like  the  congregated  midges  that  dance  unceasingly  in 
the  upper  element,  but  a  few  inches  over  them.  For  the  first 
mile  or  so,  the  trees  which  line  the  banks  are  chiefly  old  wil- 
low pollards,  with  stiflT  rough  stems  and  huge  bunchy  heads. 
Shrubs  of  various  kinds,  chiefly,  however,  the  bramble  and  the 
woody  nightshade,  have  struck  root  atop  into  their  decayed 
trunks,  as  if  these  formed  so  many  tall  flower-pots ;  and  we 
may  catch,  in  consequence,  the  unwonted  glitter  of  glossy  black 
and  crimson  berries  from  amid  the  silvery  leaves.  The  scenery 
improves  ^^s  we  ascend  the  stream.  The  willow  pollards  give 
place  to  forest  trees,  carelessly  grouped,  that  preserve,  unlopped 
and  unmutilated,  their  proper  proportions.  But  the  main 
features  of  the  landscape  remain  what  they  were.  A  placid 
stream,  broadly  befringed  with  sedges,  winds  in  tortuous 
reaches  through  rich  meadows  ;  and  now  it  sparkles  in  open  sun 
light,  for  the  trees  recede  ;  and  anon  it  steals  away,  scarce  seen, 
amid  the  gloom  of  bosky  thickets.  And  such  is  the  Avon, — 
Shakspeare's  own  river.  Here  must  he  have  wandered  in  his 
boyhood,  times  unnumbered.  That  stream,  with  its  sedges. 
and  its  quick  glancing  fins, —  those  dewy  banks,  with  their 
cowslips  and  daffodils,  —  trees  chance-grouped,  exactly  such  as 
these,  and  to  which  these  have  succeeded,  —  must  all  have 
stamped  their  deep  impress  on  his  mind;  and,  when  an  unset- 
tled adventurer  in  London,  they  must  have  risen  before  him 
in  all  their  sunshiny  peacefulness,  to  inspire  feelings  of  sadness 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  289 

and  regret ;  and  when,  in  after  days,  he  nad  fou  d  his  true  voca- 
tion, their  loved  forms  and  colors  must  have  r  ingled  with  the 
tissue  of  his  poetry.  And  here  must  he  have  walked  in  sober 
middle  life,  when  fame  and  fortune  had  both  been  achieved, 
Uappily  to  feel  amid  the  solitude  that  there  is  but  little  of  solid 
food  in  either,  and  that,  even  were  it  otherwise,  the  stream  of 
life  glides  away  to  its  silent  bourn,  from  their  gay  light  and 
their  kindly  shelter,  to  return  no  more  forever.  What  would 
his  thoughts  have  been,  if,  after  spending  in  these  quiet  re- 
cesses hit  fiftieth  birth-day,  he  could  have  foreseen  that  the 
brief  three  score  and  ten  annual  revolutions,  —  few  as  certainly 
as  evil, —  which  have  so  long  summed  up  the  term  of  man's 
earthly  existence,  were  to  be  mulcted,  in  his  ca^e,  of  full  seven 
teen  years ! 

How  would  this  master  of  human  nature  have  judged  of  the 
homage  that  has  now  been  paid  him  for  these  two  centuries  ? 
and  what  would  have  been  his  theory  of  "  Hero  Worship "  t 
Many  a  bygone  service  of  this  inverted  religion  has  Stratford- 
on-Avoii  witnessed.  The  Jubilee  devised  by  Garrick  had  no 
doubt  much  of  the  player  in  it ;  but  it  possessed  also  the  real 
devotional  substratum,  and  formed  the  type,  on  a  splendid 
scale,  not  less  in  its  hollowness  than  in  its  groundwork  of  real 
feeling,  of  those  countless  acts  of  devotion  of  whicli  the  poet's 
oirth  and  burial  places  have  been  the  scene.  "  Man  praises 
man ;"  Garrick,  as  became  his  occupation,  was  a  little  more 
ostentatious  and  formal  in  his  Jubilee  services, —  more  studious 
of  rich  .ceremonial  and  striking  forms,  —  more  High  Church  in 
spirit,  —  than  the  simpler  class  of  hero-devotees  who  are  con- 
tent to  worship  extempore  ;  but  that  was  just  all. 

"  He  drew  tlie  Liturgy,  and  framed  the  rites 
And  solemn  ceremonial  of  the  day. 
And  called  the  world  to  worship  on  the  banka 
25 


290  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

Of  Avon,  famed  in  song.     Ah  !  pleasant  proof 

That  piety  has  still  in  human  hearts 

Some  place,  a  spark  or  two  not  yet  extinct. 

The  mulberry-tree  was  huLg  with  blooming  wreaths  ; 

The  mulberry-tree  stood  centre  of  the  dance  ; 

The  mulberry-tree  was  hymned  with  dulcet  airs  ; 

And  from  his  touchwood  trunk  the  mulberry-tree 

Supplied  such  relics  as  devotion  holds 

Still  sacred,  and  preserves  with  pious  care. 

So  't  was  a  hallowed  time  ;  decorum  reigned, 

And  mirth  without  otFence.     No  few  returned 

Doubtless  much  edified,  and  all  refreshed." 

Such  was  Cowper's  estimate  —  to  be  sure,  somewhat  farcaa* 
tically  expressed  —  of  the  services  of  the  Jubilee.  What 
would  Shakspeare's  have  been  of  the  deeply-based  sentiment, 
inherent,  it  would  seem,  in  human  nature,  in  which  the  Jubi- 
lee originated  ?  An  instinct  so  widely  diffused  and  so  deeply 
implanted  cannot  surely  be  a  mere  accident;  it  must  form, 
however  far  astray  of  the  proper  mark  it  may  wander,  one  of 
the  original  components  of  the  mental  constitution,  which  we 
have  not  given  ourselves.  What  would  it  be  in  its  integrity  ? 
It  must,  it  would  appear,  have  humanity  on  which  to  rest,  —  a 
nature  identical  with  our  own ;  and  yet,  when  it  finds  nothing 
higher  than  mere  humanity,  it  is  continually  running,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Stratford  Jubilee,  into  grotesque  idolatry.  Did 
Shakspeare,  with  all  his  vast  knowledge,  know  where  its  asp> 
rations  could  be  directed  aright  ?  The  knowledge  seems  lo 
have  got,  somehow,  into  his  family ;  nay,  she  who  appears  to 
have  possessed  it  was  the  much-loved  daughter  on  whom  his 
affections  mainly  rested, 

"  Witty  above  her  sexe  ;  but  that 's  not  all,  — 
Wise  to  salvation  was  good  Mistress  Hall." 

So  says  her  epitaph  in  the  chancel,  where  she  sleeps  at  tbe 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  291 

feet  of  her  father.  There  is  a  passage  in  the  poet's  will,  too, 
written  about  a  month  ere  his  death,  which  may  be,  it  is  true, 
a  piece  of  mere  form,  but  which  may  possibly  be  something 
better.  "  I  commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God  my  Crea- 
tor, hoping,  and  assuredly  believing,  through  the  only  merits 
of  Jesus  Christ,  my  Saviour,  to  be  made  partaker  of  life  ever- 
asting."  It  is,  besides,  at  least  something,  that  this  play- 
(vriter  and  play-actor,  with  wit  at  will,  and  a  shrewd  apprecia- 
tion of  the  likes  and  dislikes  of  the  courts  and  monarchs  he 
had  to  please,  drew  for  their  amusement  no  Mause  Headriggs 
or  Gabriel  Kettledrummles.  Puritanism  could  have  been  no 
patronizer  of  the  Globe  Theatre.  Both  Elizabeth  and  James 
hated  the  principle  with  a  perfect  hatred,  and  strove  hard  to 
trample  it  out  of  existence  ;  and  such  a  laugh  at  its  expense  as 
a  Shakspeare  could  have  raised  would  have  been  doubtless  a 
high  luxury;  nay,  Puritanism  itself  was  somewhat  sharp  and 
provoking  in  those  days,  and  just  a  little  coarse  in  its  jokes,  as 
the  Martin  Mar-Prelate  tracts  survive  to  testify ;  but  the  dram- 
atist, who  grew  wealthy  under  the  favor  of  Puritan-detesting 
monarchs  was,  it  would  seem,  not  the  man  to  make  reprisals. 
There  are  scenes  in  his  earlier  dramas,  from  which,  as  eternitv 
neared  upon  his  view,  he  could  have  derived  little  satisfaction ; 
but  there  is  no  "  Old  Mortality  "  among  them.  Had  the  poor 
player  some  sense  of  what  his  beloved  daughter  seems  to  have 
clearly  discovered,  —  the  true  "  Hero  Worship  "  ?  In  his  broad 
survey  of  nature  and  of  man,  did  he  mark  one  solitary  charac- 
ter standing  erect  amid  the  moral  waste  of  creation,  untouched 
by  taint  of  evil  or  of  weakness,  —  a  character  infinitely  too 
high  for  even  his  vast  genius  to  conceive,  or  his  profound  com- 
prehension to  fathom  ?  Did  he  draw  near  to  inquire,  and  to 
wonder,  and  then  fall  down  humbly  to  adore? 

I  took  &".  evening  coach  for  Warwick,  on  my  way  to  Cney. 


292  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

and  passed  through  the  town  for  the  railway  station,  a  few 
minutes  before  sunset.  It  was  a  delightful  evening,  and  the 
venerable  castle  and  ancient  town,  with  their  surrounding 
woods  and  quiet  river,  formed  in  the  red  light  a  gorgeous 
picture.  I  could  fain  have  availed  for  a  day  to  explore  Guy's 
Cliff,  famous  of  old  for  its  caves  and  its  hermits,  and  to  go 
over  the  ancient  castle  of  king-making  Warwick,  —  at  once  the 
most  extensive  and  best  preserved  monument  in  the  kingdom 
df  the  bygone  feudal  grandeur.  The  geology  of  the  locality, 
Joo,  is  of  considerable  interest.  From  Stratford  to  the  western 
suburbs  of  Warwick,  the  substratum  of  the  landscape  is  com- 
posed, as  every  fallow-field  which  we  pass  certifies,  in  its  flush 
of  chocolate  red,  of  the  saliferous  marls.  Just,  however,  where 
the  town  borders  on  the  country,  the  lower  pavement  of  sand- 
stone, on  which  the  marls  rest,  comes  to  the  surface,  and 
stretches  away  northward  in  a  long  promontory,  along  which 
we  find  cliffs  and  quarries,  and  altogether  bolder  features  than 
the  denuding  agents  could  have  sculptured  out  of  the  incohe- 
rent marls.  Guy's  Cliff,  and  the  cliff  on  which  Warwick  Castle 
stands,  are  both  composed  of  this  sandstone.  It  is  richer,  too, 
in  remains  of  vertebrate  animals,  than  the  Upper  New  Rea 
anywhere  else  in  England.  It  has  its  bone  bed,  containing, 
though  in  a  sorely  mutilated  state,  the  remains  of  fish,  chiefly 
teeth,  and  the  remains  of  the  teeth  and  vertebrae  of  saurians. 
The  saurian  of  Guy's  Cliff,  with  the  exception  of  the  saurian 
of  the  Dolomitic  Conglomerate,  near  Bristol,  is  the  oldest 
British  reptile  known  to  geologists.  Time  pressed,  however; 
and  leaving  behind  me  the  antiquities  of  Warwick,  geologic 
and  feudal,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  railway  train  for  the  station 
nearest  Olney,  —  that  of  Wolverton.  And  the  night  fell  ere 
've  had  gone  over  half  the  way. 

1  had  now  had  some  little  experience  of  railway  travelling 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPI.K.  29^5 

in  England,  and  a  not  inadequate  idea  of  the  kind  of  quiet, 
comfortable-looking  people  whom  I  might  expect  to  meet  in  a 
second-class  carriage.  But  my  fellow-passengers  this  evening 
were  of  a  different  stamp.  They  were  chiefly,  almost  exclu- 
sively indeed,  of  the  male  sex,  —  vulgar,  noisy,  ruffian-like 
fellows,  full  of  coarse  oaths  and  dogged  asseverations,  and  singu- 
larly redolent  of  gin  ;  and  I  was  quite  glad  enough,  when  the 
train  stopped  at  the  Wolverton  station,  that  1  was  to  get  rid  of 
them.  At  t.  e  station,  however,  they  came  out  en  masse.  All 
the  othe^  carriages  disgorged  similar  cargoes  ;  and  I  found 
myself  in  the  middle  of  a  crowd  that  represented  very  unfairly 
the  people  of  England.  It  was  now  nine  o'clock.  I  had  in- 
tended pa«;sing  the  night  in  the  inn  at  Wolverton,  and  then 
walking  on  in  the  morning  to  Olney,  a  distance  of  nine  miles ; 
but  when  I  came  to  the  inn,  I  found  it  all  ablaze  with  light,  and 
all  astir  with  commotion.  Candles  glanced  in  every  window  ; 
and  a  thorough  Babel  of  sound  —  singing,  quarrelling,  bell- 
ringing,  thumping,  stamping,  and  the  clatter  of  mugs  and  glasses 
—  issued  from  every  apartment.  I  turned  away  from  the  door. 
and  met,  under  the  lee  of  a  fence  which  screened  him  from 
observation,  a  rural  policeman.  "What  is  all  this  about?"! 
asked.  —  "  Do  you  not  know  ?"  was  the  reply.  —  "  No  ;  I  am 
quite  a  stranger  here."  —  "Ah,  there  are  many  strangers  here. 
But  do  you  not  know  ?"  —  "I  have  no  idea  whatever,"  1  reiter- 
ated :  "  I  am  on  my  way  to  Olney,  and  had  intended  spending 
the  night  here ;  but  would  prefer  walking  on,  to  passing  it  in 
8uch  a  house  as  that."  —  "  0,  beg  pardon;  I  thought  you  had 
been  one  Df  themselves  :  Bendigo  of  Nottingham  has  challenged 
Caunt  of  London  to  fight  for  the  championship.  The  battle 
comes  on  to-morrow,  somewhere  hereabouts ;  and  we  have  £jol 
nil  the  blackguards  in  England,  south  and  north,  let  loose  upon 
us.     If  you  walk  on  to  Newport  Pagnell,—  just  four  miles.— 


^94  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

»  ou  will  ro  doubt  get  a  bed ;  but  the  way  is  lonely,  and  there 
have  been  a  ready  several  robberies  since  nightfall."  —  "I  shall 
take  my  chance  of  that,"  I  said. — "'  Ah,  -well,  —  your  best  way, 
then,  is  to  Avalk  straight  forwards  at  a  smart  pace,  keeping  the 
middle  of  the  highway,  and  stopping  for  no  one."  I  thanked 
the  friendly  policeman,  and  took  the  road.  It  was  a  calm, 
[ileasant  night ;  the  moon,  in  her  first  quarter,  was  setting  dim 
and  lightless  in  the  west ;  and  an  incipient  frost,  in  the  form 
jf  a  thin  film  of  blue  vapor,  rested  in  the  lower  hollows. 

The  way  was  quite  lonely  enough ;  nor  were  the  few  strag- 
trling  travellers  whom  I  met  of  a  kind  suited  to  render  its  soli- 
tariness more  cheerful.  About  half  way  on,  where  the  road 
runs  between  tall  hedges,  two  fellows  started  out  towards  me, 
one  from  each  side  of  the  way.  "  Is  this  the  road,"  asked  one, 
•'  to  Newport  Pagnell  ?  "  —  "  Quite  a  stranger  here,"  I  replied, 
without  slackening  my  pace ;  "  don't  belong  to  the  kingdom 
^ven."  —  "  No  !  "  said  the  same  fellow,  increasing  his  speed,  as 
i[  to  overtake  me  ;  "  to  what  kingdom,  then  ?  "  —  "  Scotland,"  I 
said,  turning  suddenly  round,  somewhat  afraid  of  being  taken 
from  behind  by  a  bludgeon.  The  two  fellows  sheered  off  in 
Jouble  quick  time,  the  one  who  had  already  addressed  me 
muttering,  "  More  like  an  Irishman,  I  think ;  "  and  I  saw  no 
more  of  them.  I  had  luckily  a  brace  of  loaded  pistols  about 
me,  and  had  at  the  moment  a  trigger  under  each  fore-finger ; 
and  though  the  ruffians  —  for  such  I  doubt  not  they  were  — 
ould  scarcely  have  been  cognizant  of  the  fact,  they  seemed  to 
'  ave  made  at  least  a  shrewd  approximation  towards  it.  In  the 
iutumn  of  1842,  during  the  great  depression  of  trade,  Avhen  the 
entire  country  seemed  in  a  state  of  disorganization,  and  the  law 
m  some  of  the  mining  districts  failed  to  protect  ;he  lieges,  I 
was  engaged  in  following  out  a  course  of  geologic  exploration  in 
.)■;  r  Lothian  Coal  Field ;  and,  unwilling  to  suspend  my  labors, 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  295 

aad  got  the  pistols,  to  do  for  myself,  if  necessary,  what  the 
authorities  at  'he  time  could  not  do  for  me.  But  I  had  fortu- 
nately found  ft)  use  for  them,  though  I  had  visited  many  a  lonely 
hollow  and  litt.e-frequented  water-course,  —  exactly  the  sort  of 
places  in  which,  a  century  ago,  one  would  have  been  apt  to 
raise  footpads  as  one  now  starts  hares ;  and  in  crossing  the 
borders,  I  had  half  resolved  to  leave  them  behind  me.  They 
gave  confidence,  however,  in  unknown  neighborhoods,  or  when 
travelling  alone  in  the  night-time  ;  and  so  I  had  brought  them 
with  me  into  England,  to  support,  if  necessary,  the  majesty  of 
the  law  and  the  rights  of  the  liege  subject ;  and  certainly  did 
not  regret  this  evening  that  I  had. 

I  entered  Newport  Pagnell  a  little  after  ten  o'clock,  and 
found  all  its  inns  exactly  such  scenes  of  riot  and  uproar  as  the 
mn  at  Wolverton.  There  was  the  same  display  of  glancing 
lights  in  the  windows,  and  the  same  wild  hubbub  of  sound. 
On  I  went.  A  decent  mechanic,  with  a  white  apron  before 
him,  whom  I  found  in  the  street,  assured  me  there  was  no 
chance  of  getting  a  bed  in  Newport  Pagnell,  but  that  I  might 
possibly  get  one  at  Skirvington,  a  village  on  the  Olney  road, 
about  three  miles  further  on.  And  so,  leaving  Newport  Pag- 
nell behind  me,  I  set  out  for  Skirvington.  It  was  now  wearing 
late,  and  I  met  no  more  travellers :  the  little  bit  of  a  moon  had 
been  down  the  hill  for  more  than  an  hour,  the  fog  rime  had 
thickened,  and  the  trees  by  the  wayside  loomed  through  the 
clouds  like  giants  in  dominos.  In  passing  through  Skirvington, 
I  had  to  stoop  down  and  look  between  me  and  the  sky  for  sign- 
posts. There  were  no  lights  in  the  houses,  save  here  and  theie 
in  an  upper  casement;  and  all  was  quiet  as  in  a  churchyard. 
By  dint  of  sky-gazing,  I  discovered  an  inn,  and  rapped  hard  at 
the  ioor.  It  was  opened  Iv  the  landlord,  satis  coat  and  waist- 
coat.    There  was  no  bed     o  be  had  there,  he  said ;  the  beda 


296  '  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

were  all  occupied  by  travellers  who  could  get  no  accommodatior 
in  Newport  Pagnell ;  but  there  was  another  inn  in  the  place 
further  on,  though  it  was  n't  unlikely,  as  it  did  n't  much  busi- 
ness, the  family  had  gone  to  bed.  This  was  small  comfort. 
1  had,  however,  made  up  my  mind,  that  if  I  failed  in  finding 
entertainment  at  inn  the  second,  I  should  address  myself  to 
hay-rick  the  first ;  but  better  fortune  awaited  me.  I  sighted 
my  way  to  the  other  sign-post  of  the  village :  the  lights  within 
had  gone  up  stairs  to  the  attics ;  but  as  I  tapped  and  tapped, 
one  of  them  came  trippingly  down ;  it  stood  pondering  behind 
the  door  for  half  a  second,  as  if  in  deliberation,  and  then  bolt 
and  bar  were  withdrawn,  and  a  very  pretty  young  English- 
woman stood  in  the  door-way.  "  Could  I  get  accommodation 
there  for  a  night,  —  suppsr  and  bed  ?  "  There  was  a  hesitating 
glance  at  my  person,  followed  by  a  very  welcome  "  yes ;  "  and 
thus  closed  the  adventures  of  the  evening.  On  the  following 
morning  I  walked  on  to  Olney.  It  was  with  some  little  degree 
of  solicitude  that,  in  a  quiet  corner  by  the  way,  remote  from 
cottages,  I  tried  my  pistols,  to  ascertain  what  sort  of  defence  1 
would  have  made  had  the  worst  come  to  the  worst  in  the 
encounter  of  the  previous  evening.  Pop,  pop  !  —  they  went  off 
beautifully,  and  sent  their  bullets  through  an  inch  board ;  and 
so  in  all  pr)bability  I  would  have  succeeded  in  ar»tomhing  the 
fan:)"-men." 


KNGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOl'Lt.  297 


CHAPTER     XV. 

'..  wper ;  his  sL;^;  lar  Magnanimity  of  Character  ;  Argument  furnished  by 
his  latter  Religi  )us  History  against  the  Selfish  Philosophy.—  Valley 
of  the  Ouse.  —  A|)])roach  to  Oluey.  —  Appearance  of  the  Town.  —  Cow- 
per's  House  ;  Parlor  ;  Garden.  —  Pippin-tree  planted  by  the  Poet.  — 
Summer-house  written  within  and  without.  —  John  Tawell.  —  Delightful 
Old  Woman.  —  Weston-Uiiderwood.  —  Thomas  Scott's  House.  —  The 
Park  of  the  Throckmortons.  —  Walk  described  in  "  The  Task."  —  Wil- 
derness.—  Ancient  Avenue.  —  Alcove ;  Prospect  which  it  commands, 
as  drawn  by  Cowper.  —  Colonnade.  —  Rustic  Bridge.  —  Scene  of  the 
"  Needless  Alarm."  — The  Milk  Thistle. 

Olney  !  Weston-Uiiderwood  I  Yardley-Chase  !  the  banks  of 
the  Ouse.  and  the  park  of  the  Throckmortons  !  Classic  ground 
once  more,  —  the  home  and  much-ioved  haunts  of  a  sweet  and 
gentle,  yet  sublimely  heroic  nature,  that  had  to  struggle  on  in 
great  unhappiness  with  the  most  terrible  of  all  enemies,  —  the 
obstinate  unreasoning  despair  of  a  broken  mind.  Poor  Cowper ! 
There  are  few  things  more  affecting  in  the  history  of  the 
species  than  the  Heaven-inspired  magnaniiriity  of  this  man. 
Believing  himself  doomed  to  perish  everlastingly,  —  for  such 
was  the  leading  delusion  of  his  unhappy  malady,  —  he  yet 
made  it  the  grand  aim  of  his  enduring  labors  to  show  forth  the 
mer^y  and  goodness  of  a  God  who,  he  believed,  had  no  mercy 
for  him,  and  to  indicate  to  others  the  true  way  of  salvation, — 
deeming  it  all  the  while  a  way  closed  against  himself.  Such, 
surely,  is  not  the  character  or  disposition  of  the  men  destined 
to  perish.  We  are  told  by  his  biographers  that  the  well-known 
aymn  in  which  he  celebrates  the  "mysterious  way"  in  which 
' Goc    vo'ks"  to  "perform  his  wonders."  was  written  at  the 


29H  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

close  of  the  happj  period  which  intervened  between  the  first 
and  second  attack*  of  his  cruel  malady ;  and  that  what  sug 
gested  its  com,  osition  were  the  too  truly  interpreted  indica- 
tions of  a  relapse.  His  mind  had  been  wholly  restored  to  him ; 
he  had  been  singularly  happy  in  his  religion :  and  he  had 
striven  earnestly,  as  in  the  case  of  his  dying  brother,  to  bring 
others  under  its  influence.  And  now,  too  surely  feeling  that 
his  intellect  was  again  on  the  eve  of  being  darkened,  he  deemed 
the  providence  a  frowning  one,  but  believed  in  faith  that  there 
was  a  "  smiling  face "  behind  it.  In  his  second  recovery, 
though  his  intellectual  stature  was  found  to  have  greatly 
increased,  —  as  in  some  racking  maladies  the  person  of  the 
patient  becomes  taller,  —  he  never  enjoyed  his  whole  mind. 
There  was  a  missing  faculty,  if  faculty  I  may  term  it:  his  well- 
grounded  hope  of  salvation  never  returned.  It  were  presump- 
tuous to  attempt  interpreting  the  real  scope  and  object  of  the 
afflictive  dispensation  which  Cowper  could  contemplate  with 
such  awe ;  and  yet  there  does  seem  a  key  to  it.  There  is 
surely  a  wondrous  sublimity  in  the  lesson  which  it  reads.  The 
assertors  of  the  selfish  theory  have  dared  to  regard  Christian- 
ity itself,  in  its  relation  to  the  human  mind,  as  but  one  of  the 
higher  modifications  of  the  self-aggrandizing  sentiment.  May 
we  not  venture  to  refer  them  to  the  grief-worn  hero  of  Olney, 
—  the  sweet  poet  who  first  poured  the  stream  of  Divine  truth 
into  the  channels  of  our  literature,  after  they  had  been  shut 
against  it  for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  —  and  ask  them 
whether  it  be  in  the  power  of  sophistry  to  square  his  motives 
with  the  ignoble  conclusions  of  their  philosophy  ? 

Olney  stands  upon  tie  Oolite,  on  the  northern  side  ot  the 
valley  of  the  Ouse,  anr  I  approached  it  this  morning  from  the 
south,  ac  :)ss  the  valley  Let  the  reader  imagine  a  long  green 
ri  bon  Df    lat  meadov,    aid  down  in  the  middle  of  the  land 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  29'J 

scape  liare  a  web  on  i  bleaching  green,  only  not  v^uite  so 
Btraightly  drawn  out.  It  is  a  ribbon  about  half  a  mile  in 
breadth,  and  it  stretchts  away  lengthwise  above  and  below,  far 
as  the  eye  can  reach.  Thore  rises  over  it  on  each  side  a  gentle 
line  of  acclivity,  that  here  advances  upon  it  in  flat  prosnonto- 
ries,  there  recedes  into  shallow  bays,  and  very  much  resembles 
the  line  of  a  low-lying  but  exceedingly  rich  coast;  for  on  both 
sides,  field  and  wood,  cottage  and  hedge-row,  lie  thick  as  the 
variously  tinted  worsteds  in  a  piece  of  German  needlework ; 
the  flat  ribbon  in  the  midst  is  bare  and  open,  and  through  it 
there  winds,  from  side  to  side,  in  many  a  convolution,  as  its 
appropriate  pattern,  a  blue  sluggish  stream,  deeply  fringed  on 
Doth  banks  by  an  edging  of  tall  bulrushes.  The  pleasantly 
grouped  village  directly  opposite,  with  the  long  narrow  bridge 
m  front,  and  the  old  handsome  church  and  tall  spire  rising  in 
the  midst,  is  Olney;  and  that  other  village  on  the  same  side, 
about  two  miles  further  up  the  stream,  with  the  exceedingly 
lofty  trees  rising  over  it,  —  trees  so  lofty  that  they  overhang 
the  square  tower  of  its  church,  as  a  churchyard  cypress  over- 
hangs a  sepulchral  monument, —  is  Weston-UTidei-ioood.  In 
the  one  village  Cowper  produced  "The  Task;"  in  the  other  he 
translated  "  Homer.'' 

1  crossed  the  bridge,  destined,  like  the  "  Brigs  of  Ayr,"  and 
the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  long  to  outlive  its  stone  and  lime  exist- 
ence ;  passed  the  church,  —  John  Newton's  ;  saw  John  New 
ton's  house,  a  snug  building,  much  garnished  with  greenery  > 
and  then  entered  Olney  proper, —  the  village  that  was  Olney  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Unlike  most  of  the  villages  of  central 
ijlngland,  it  is  built,  not  of  brick,  but  chiefly  at  least  of  a  calca- 
reous yellovv  stone  from  the  Oolite,  which,  as  it  gathers  scarce 
anv  lichen  or  moss,  looks  clean  and  fresh  after  the  lapse  of  cen- 
turies ;   and  it  is  not  until  the  eye  catchos  the  dates  on  the 


300  FIUST    IMPRESS/ONS    OF 

peaked  gable  points,  1682,  1611,  1590,  that  one  can  regard  the 
place  as  no  hastily  run  up  town  of  yesterday,  but  as  a  place 
that  had  a  living  in  other  times.  The  main  street,  which  is 
also  the  Bedford  road,  broadens  towards  the  middle  of  the  vil- 
lage mto  a  roomy  angle,  in  shape  not  very  unlike  the  capacious 
pocket  of  a  Scotch  housevvife  of  the  old  school :  one  large  elm 
tree  rises  in  the  centre  ;  and  just  opposite  the  elm,  among  the 
houses  which  skirt  the  base  of  the  angle,  —  i.  e.  the  bottom  of 
the  pocket,  —  we  see  an  old-fashioned  house,  considerably 
taller  than  the  others,  and  differently  tinted ;  for  it  is  built  of 
red  brick,  somewhat  ornately  bordered  with  stone.  And  this  tall 
brick  house  was  Cowper's  home  for  nineteen  years.  It  con- 
tains the  parlor,  which  has  become  such  a  standard  paragon  of 
snugness  and  comfort,  that  it  will  need  no  repairs  in  all  the 
future  ;  and  the  garden  behind  is  that  in  which  the  poet  reared 
his  cucumbers  and  his  Ribston  pippins,  and  in  which  he 
plied  hammer  and  saw  to  such  excellent  purpose,  in  converting 
his  small  greenhouse  into  a  summer  sitting-room,  and  in  mak- 
ihg  lodging-houses  for  his  hares.  He  dated  from  that  tall 
house  not  a  few  of  the  most  graceful  letters  in  the  English 
language,  and  matured,  from  the  first  crude  conceptions  to  the 
last  finished  touches,  "  Truth,"  "  Hope,"  "  The  Progress  of 
Error,"  "  Retirement,"  and  "  The  Task."  I  found  the  famed 
parlor  vocal  with  the  gabble  of  an  infant  school :  carpet  and 
curtains  were  gone,  sofa  and  bubbling  urn:  and  I  saw,  instead, 
but  a  few  deal  forms,  and  about  two  dozen  chubby  children, 
whom  all  the  authority  of  the  thin  old  woman,  their  teacher, 
could  not  recall  to  diligence  in  the  presence  of  the  stranger. 
The  walls  were  sorely  soiled,  and  the  plaster  somewhat  broken; 
tnere  was  evidence,  too,  that  a  partition  had  been  removed, 
and  that  the  place  was  roomier  by  one-half  than  when  Cowper 
Mid.  Mrs.  Unwin  used  to  sit  down  in  it  to  then-  evening  tea 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  301 

But  at  least  one  interesting  feature  had  remained  unchanged. 
Tnere  is  a  small  pc  rt-hole  in  the  plaster,  framed  by  a  narrow 
facing  of  board  ;  aiJ  through  this  port-hole,  cut  in  the  parti- 
tion for  the  express  purpose,  Cowper's  hares  used  to  come  leap- 
ing out  to  their  evening  gambols  on  the  carpet.  I  found  the 
garden,  like  the  house,  much  changed.  It  had  been  broken  up 
into  two  separate  properties  ;  and  ihe  proprietors  having  run  a 
wall  through  the  middle  of  it,  onti  must  now  seek  the  pippin- 
tree  which  the  poet  planted  in  one  little  detached  bit  of  gar- 
den, and  the  lath-and-plaster  summer-house,  which,  when  the 
weather  was  fine,  used  to  form  his  writing-room  in  another. 
The  Ribston  pippin  looks  an  older-like  tree,  and  has  more 
lichen  about  it,  though  far  from  tall  for  its  age,  than  might  be 
expected  of  a  tree  of  Cowper's  planting ;  but  it  is  now  seventy- 
nine  years  since  the  poet  came  to  Olney,  and  in  less  than 
seventy-nine  years  young  fruit-trees  become  old  ones.  The  lit- 
tle summer-house,  maugre  the  fragility  of  its  materials,  is  in  a 
wonderfully  good  state  of  keeping:  the  old  lath  still  retains  the 
old  lime ;  and  all  the  square  inches  and  finger-breadths  of  the 
plaster,  inside  and  out,  we  find  as  thickly  covered  with  names 
as  the  space  in  our  ancient  Scotch  copies  of  the  "  Solemn 
League  and  Covenant."  Cowper  would  have  marvelled  to 
have  seen  his  little  summer-house, —  for  little  it  is,  —  scarce 
larger  than  a  four-posted  bedstead,  —  written,  like  the  roll 
described  in  sacred  vision,  "within  and  without."  It  has  still 
around  it,  in  its  green  old  age,  as  when  it  was  younger  and  less 
visited,  a  great  profusion  of  flowering  shrubs  arid  hollyhocks ; 
we  see  from  its  window  the  back  of  honest  John  Newton's 
house,  much  enveloped  in  wood,  with  the  spire  of  the  church 
lising  over;  and  on  either  side  there  are  luxuriant  orchards,  in 
wliich  the  stiff'er  forms  of  the  fruit-trees  are  relieved  by  lines 
of  graceful  poplars.  Some  of  the  names  on  the  plaster  are  not 
26 


302  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    01 

particularly  classical.  My  conductress  pointec  to  one  sign.i 
ture,  in  especial,  which  was,  she.  said,  an  object  of  great  curi« 
osity,  and  which  a  "most  respectable  person," — " jiist  after 
the  execution,''  —  had  come  a  day's  journey  to  see.  It  was 
that  of  the  hapless  "John  Tawell,  Great  Birkenstead,  Hants,' 
who  about  two  years  ago  was  hung  for  the  murder  of  his  mis- 
tress. It  had  been  added  to  the  less  celebrated  names,  for  so 
the  legend  bore,  on  the  "  21st  day  of  seventh  month  1842 ;" 
and  just  beside  it  some  kind  friend  of  the  deceased  had  added, 
by  way  of  postscript,  the  significant  hieroglyphic  of  a  minute 
human  figure,  suspended  on  a  gibbet,  with  the  head  rather 
uncomfortably  twisted  awry. 

I  had  made  several  unsuccessful  attempts  to  procure  a  guide 
acquainted  with  the  walks  of  the  poet,  and  had  inquired  of  my 
conductress  (an  exceedingly  obliging  person,  I  may  mention,  — 
housekeeper  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  the  outermost  of  the 
two  gardens  belongs),  as  of  several  others,  whether  she  knew 
any  one  at  once  willing  and  qualified  to  accompany  me  for 
part  of  the  day  in  that  capacity.  But  she  could  bethink  her- 
self of  nobody.  Just,  however,  as  we  stepped  out  from  the  gar- 
den into  the  street,  there  was  an  old  woman  in  a  sad-colored 
cloak,  and  bearing  under  the  cloak  a  bulky  basket,  passing  by. 
"  O  !"  said  the  housekeeper,  "  there  is  just  the  person  that 
knows  more  about  Cowper  than  any  one  else.  She  was  put  to 
school,  when  a  little  girl,  by  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  was  much  about 
her  house  at  Weston-Underwood.  Gossip,  gossip!  come  hither," 
And  so  I  secured  the  old  woman  as  my  guide ;  and  we  set  out 
together  for  Weston  and  the  pleasure-grounds  of  the  Thrcck- 
niortons.  She  was  seventy-one,  she  said  ;  but  she  walked  every 
day  with  her  basket  from  Weston-Underwood  to  Olney, — 
sometimes,  indeed,  twice  in  the  day, —  to  shop  and  market  foi 
Uer  neighbors.     She  had  now  got  a  basket  of  fresh  herrings. 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  ^03 

(vliich  were  great  rarities  in  these  parts,  and  it  oehooved  her 
to  get  them  delivered :  but  she  would  then  be  quite  free  to 
accompany  me  to  all  the  walks  in  which  she  had  seen  Squire 
Cowper  a  hundred  and  a  bundled  times,  —  to  the  "Peasant's 
Nest,"  and  the  "  alcove,"  and  the  "avenue,"  and  the  "rustic 
bridge,"  and  the  "  Wilderness,"  and  "  Yardley  oak,"  and,  ir. 
short,  anywhere  or  everywhere.  I  could  not  have  been  more  in 
luck :  my  delightful  old  woman  had  a  great  deal  to  say  :  she 
would  have  been  equally  giirrulous,  1  doubt  not,  had  Cowpei 
been  a  mere  country  squire,  and  Mrs.  Unwin  his  housekeeper; 
but  as  he  chanced  to  be  a  great  poet,  and  as  his  nearer  friend? 
had,  like  the  planets  of  a  central  sun,  become  distinctly  visible, 
from  their  proximity,  by  the  light  which  he  cast,  and  were  evi- 
dently to  remain  so,  her  gossip  about  him  and  them  I  found 
-astly  agreeable.  The  good  Squire  Cowper!  she  said, — 
well  did  she  remember  him,  in  his  white  cap,  and  his  suit 
of  green  turned  up  with  black.  She  knew  the  Lady  Hesketh 
too.  A  kindly  lady  was  the  Lady  Hesketh ;  there  are  few  such 
ladies  now-a-days :  she  used  to  put  coppers  into  her  little  vel 
vet  bag  every  time  she  went  out,  to  make  the  children  she  met 
happy ;  and  both  she  and  Mrs.  Unwin  were  remarkably  kind 
to  the  poor.  The  road  to  Weston-Underwood  looks  dowr 
upon  the  valley  of  the  Ouse.  "Were  there  not  water-lilios  ir. 
the  river  in  their  season  ? "  I  asked  ;  "  and  did  not  Cowptr 
sometimes  walk  out  along  its  banks  ?  "  —  "  O  yes,"  she  replied  ; 
"and  I  remember  the  dog  Beau,  too,  who  brought  the  lily 
ashore  to  him.  Beau  was  a  smart,  petted  little  creature,  with 
silken  ears,  and  had  a  good  deal  of  red  about  him." 

My  guide  brought  me  to  Cowper's  Weston  residence,  a  hand- 
some, though,  .ike  the  Olney  domicile,  old-fashioned  house, 
Still  i/i  a  state  of  good  repair,  with  a  whitened  many-windowed 
•torit,   Avi   tall  si?ep  roof  flagged  with  stune  ;    and   I   wbilef^ 


^04  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

away  some  Aventy  minutes  or  so  in  the  street  before  it,  while 
my  old  woman  went  about  dispersing  her  herrings.     Weston. 
Underwood,  us  villages  go,  must  enjoy  a  rather  quiet,  do-noth- 
ing  sort  of  existence,  for   in    all    that  time    not  a   passenger 
we  It  by.     The  houses  —  steep-roofed,  straw-thatched,  stone- 
built  erections,  with  the  casements  of  their  second  stories  lost 
in  the  eaves  —  straggle  irregularly  on  both  sides  of  the  road, 
as  if  each  house  had  an  independent  will  of  its  own,  and  was 
somewhat  capricious  in  the  exercise  of  it.     There  is  a  profu- 
sion of  well-grown,  richly-leaved  vines,  trailed  up  against  their 
walls  :  the  season  had  been  unfavorable,  and  so  the  grapes,  in 
even  the  best  bunches,  scarcely  exceeded  in  size  our  common 
red  currants  ;  but  still   they  were  bona  fide  vines  and  grapes^ 
and  their  presence  served  to  remind  one  of  the  villages  of  sun- 
nier climates.     A  few  tall  walls  and  old  gateway  columns  min- 
gle with  the  cottages,  and  these  are  all  that  now  remain  of  the 
mansion-house  of  the  Throckmortons.     One  rather  rude-look- 
ing cottage,  with  its  upper  casement  half  hid  in  the  thatch,  is 
of  some  note,  as  the  scene  of  a  long  struggle  in  a  strong  rug- 
ged mind,  —  honest,  but  not  amiable,  —  which  led   ultimately 
to  the  production  of  several  useful  folios  of  solid  theology.     In 
that  cottage  a  proud   Socinian  curate  studied  and  prayed  him- 
self, greatly  against  his  will,  into  one  of  the  soundest  Calvinists 
of  modern  times  :   it  was  for  many  years  the  dwelling-place  of 
Thomas  Scott ;  and  his  well-known  narrative,  "  The  Force  of 
Truth,"  forms  a  portion  of  his  history  during  the  time  he  lived 
in  it.     The  road  I  had  just  travelled  over  with  the  woman  was 
that  along  which  John  Newton  had  come,  in  the  January  of 
1774,  to  visit,  in  one  of  these  cottages,  two  of  Scott's  parish- 
loners,  —a  dying  man  and  woman  ;  and  the  Socinian,  who  had 
not  vis  ted  them,  was  led  to  think  seriously,  for  the  first  time 
tint  he  had  a  duty  as  a  clergyman  which  he  failed  to  perform 


ENGLAND    AND    iTS    PEOPLE.  305 

[t  \ns  along-  the  same  piece  of  load,  some  three  years  later, 
that  Scott  used  t)  steal,  when  no  longer  a  Sociniun,  but  still 
wofully  afraic  of  being  deemed  a  Methodist,  to  hear  Newton 
preach.  The;e  were  several  heaps  of  stones  lying  along  the 
street,  —  the  surplus  material?  of  a  recent  repair,  —  that  seemed 
to  have  been  gathered  from  the  neighboring  fields,  but  had 
been  derived,  in  the  first  instance,  from  some  calcareous  grit 
of  the  Oolite  ;  and  one  of  these  lay  opposite  the  windows  of 
Cowper  3  mansion.  The  first  fragment  I  picked  up  contained 
a  well-n  arked  Plagiostoma ;  the  secnnd,  a  characteristic  frag- 
ment of  a  Pecten.  I  bethought  me  of  Cowper's  philippic  on 
the  earlier  geologists,  wliich,  howeser,  the  earlier  geologists  too 
certainly  deserved,  for  their  science  was  not  good,  and  their 
theology  wretched  ;  and  I  indulged  in,  I  dare  say,  something 
approaching  to  a  smile.  Genius,  when  in  earnest,  can  do  a 
great  deal ;  but  it  cannot  put  down  scientific  truth,  save  now 
and  then  for  a  very  little  time,  and  would  do  well  never  to  try. 
My  old  woman  had  now  pretty  nearly  scattered  over  the 
neighborhood  her  basket  of  herrings ;  but  she  needed,  she 
said,  just  to  look  in  upon  her  grandchildren,  to  say  she  was 
going  to  the  woodlands,  lest  the  poor  things  should  come  to 
think  they  had  lost  her;  and  I  accompanied  her  to  the  cot- 
tage. It  was  a  humble  low-roofed  hut,  with  its  earthen  floor 
sunk,  as  in  many  of  our  Scottish  cottages,  a  single  step  below 
the  level  of  the  lane.  Her  grandchildren,  little  girls  of  seven 
and  nine  years,  were  busily  engaged  with  their  lace  bobbins  : 
the  younger  was  working  a  piece  of  narrow  edging,  for  her 
breadth  of  attainment  in  the  lace  department  extended  as  yet 
over  only  a  few  threads  ;  whereas  the  elder  was  achieving  a 
little  belt  of  open-work,  with  a  pattern  in  it.  They  were  or- 
phans, and  \  ved  with  their  poor  grandmother,  and  she  was  a 
vidow.  Wo  regained  the  street,  and  then,  passing  through  a 
26* 


306  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

dilapidated  gateway,  entered  the  pleasure-grounds,  —  the  scene 
of  the  wajk  so  enchantingly  described  in  the  opening  book  of 
•'  The  Task."  But,  befo*'''  taking  up  in  detail  the  minuter 
features  of  the  place,  I  r..ust  attempt  communicating  to  the 
reader  some  conception  of  it  as  a  whule. 

The  road  from  Olney  to  Weston-Underwood  lies  parallel  to 
the  valley  of  the  Ouse,  at  little  more  than  a  field's  breadth  up 
th£  s.ope.  On  its  upper  side,  just  where  it  enters  Wesfon, 
there  lies  based  upon  it  (like  the  parallelogram  of  a  tyro  geom- 
etrician, rarsed  on  a  given  right  line)  an  old-fashioned  rect- 
angular park,  —  that  of  the  Tbrockmortons,  —  about  half  a  mile 
in  breadth  by  about  three-q'  arters  of  a  mile  in  length.  The 
sides  of  the  enclosure  are  bordered  by  a  broad  belting  of  very 
tall  and  very  ancient  wood  ;  its  grassy  area  is  mottled  by  nu- 
merous trees,  scattered  irregularly  ;  its  surface  partakes  of  the 
general  slope  ;  it  is  traversed  by  a  green  valley,  with  a  small 
stream  trotting  along  the  bottom,  that  enters  it  from  above, 
nearly  about  the  middle  of  the  upper  side,  and  that  then,  cut- 
ting it  diagonally,  passes  outwards  and  downwards  towards 
the  Ouse  through  the  lower  cornex.  About  the  middle  of  the 
park  this  valley  sends  out  an  off-shoot  valley,  or  dell  rather, 
towards  that  upper  corner  furthest  removed  from  the  corner  by 
which  it  makes  its  exit ;  the  off-shoot  dell  has  no  stream  a-bot- 
tom,  but  is  a  mere  grassy  depression,  dotted  with  trees.  It 
serves,  however,  with  the  valleys  into  which  it  opens,  so  to  break 
the  surface  of  the  park  that  (he  rectangular  formality  of  the 
lines  of  boundary  almost  escape  notice.  Now,  the  walk  de- 
scribed in  "  The  Task  "  lay  along  three  of  the  four  sides  of  this 
parallelogram.  The  poet,  quitting  the  Olney  road  at  that 
lower  corner  where  the  diagonal  valley  finds  egress,  struck  up 
along  the  s'de  of  the  park,  turned  at  the  nearer  upper  corner, 
and  passed   througl    the  belting  of  wood  that  runs  along  th* 


ENGLAND    ANb    ITS    PEOPLE.  307 

top;  taiud  again  at  the  further  upper  corner,  and,  coming 
down  on  Weston,  joined  the  Ohiey  road  iust  where  it  enters 
the  village.  After  first  quitting  the  highway,  a  walk  of  two 
furlongs  or  so  brought  liim  abreast  of  the  "  Peasant's  Nest ;  " 
after  the  first  turning  atop,  and  a  walk  of  some  two  or  three 
furlon^-i  more,  he  descended  into  the  diagonal  valley,  just 
where  it  enters  the  park,  crossed  the  rustic  bridge  which  spans 
the  stream  at  the  bottom,  marked  the  doings  of  the  mole,  and 
then  ascended  to  the  level  on  the  other  side.  Near  the  second 
turning  he  found  the  alcove,  and  saw  the  trees  in  the  stream 
less  dell,  as  if  "  sunk,  and  shortened  to  their  topmost  boughs ;" 
then,  coming  down  upon  Weston,  he  passed  under  the  "  light 
and  graceful  arch  "  of  the  ancient  avenue  ;  reached  the  "  Wil- 
derness ''  as  he  was  nearing  the  village  ;  and,  emerging  from 
the  thicket  full  upon  the  houses,  saw  the  "  thrasher  at  his 
task,"  through  the  open  door  of  some  one  of  the  barns  of  the 
place.  Such  is  a  bard  outline,  in  road-map  fashion,  of  the 
walk  which,  in  the  pages  of  Cowper,  forms  such  exquisite 
poetry.  1  entered  it  somewhat  unluckily  to-day  at  the  wrong 
end,  commencing  at  the  western  corner,  and  passing  on  along 
its  angles  to  the  corner  near  Olney,  thus  reversing  the  course 
of  Covvper,  for  my  old  woman  had  no  acquaintance  with  "  The 
Task,"  or  the  order  of  its  descriptions ;  but,  after  mastering  the 
various  scenes  in  detail,  I  felt  no  difficulty  in  restoring  them  to 
the  integrity  of  the  classic  arrangement. 

On  first  entering  the  park,  among  the  tall  forest-trees  that, 
viewed  from  the  approach  to  Olney,  seem  to  overhang  the  vil- 
lage and  its  church,  one  sees  a  square,  formal  corner,  sepa- 
rated from  the  opener  ground  by  a  sunk  dry-stone  fence,  within 
which  the  trees,  by  no  means  lofty,  are  massed  as  thickly 
together  as  saplings  in  a  nursery-bed  lun  wild,  or  nettles  in  a 
ueglected   burying-grDund.     There  are  wha    seem   sepulchral 


iOS  FIRST    IMPRKSSIONS    OF 

urns  among  the  thickets  of  this  enclosure;  and  sepulchral  urns 
they  are,  —  rais  id,  however,  to  commemorate  the  burial-places, 
not  of  men,  but  of  beasts.  Covvper  in  1792  wrote  an  epitaph 
for  a  favorite  pointer  of  the  Throckmortons ;  and  the  family, 
stirred  up  by  the  event,  seem  from  that  period  to  have  taken  a 
dog-burying  oias,  and  to  have  made  their  Wilderness  the  cem- 
etery ;  for  this  square  enclosure  in  the  corner,  with  its  tangleu 
thickets  and  its  green  mouldy  urns,  is  the  identical  Wilderness 
of  "  The  Task," 

"  Whose  well-rolled  walks. 
With  curvature  of  slow  and  easy  sweep,  — 
Deception  innocent,  —  give  ample  space 
To  narrow  bounds."  ' 

One  wonders  at  the  fortune  that  assigned  to  so  homely  and 
obscure  a  corner  —  a  corner  which  a  nursery-gardener  could 
get  up  to  order  in  a  fortnight  —  so  proud  and  conspicuous  a 
niche  in  English  literature.  We  walk  on,  however,  and  find 
the  scene  next  described  greatly  more  worthy  of  the  celebrity 
conferred  on  it.  In  passing  upwards,  along  the  side  of  the 
"»ark,  we  have  got  into  a  noble  avenue  of  limes,  —  tail  as  York 
Minster,  and  very  considerably  longer,  for  the  vista  diminishes 
till  the  lofty  arch  seems  reduced  to  a  mere  doorway ;  the 
Sinooth  glossy  trunks  form  stately  columns,  and  the  branches 
iiit'  liar  ng  high  over  head,  a  magnificent  roof. 

"  How  airy  and  how  light  the  graceful  arch, 
Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 
Reechoing  pious  anthems  !  while  beneath 
The  checkered  earth  seems  restless  as  a  flood 
Brushed  by  the  wind.     So  sportive  is  the  light 
Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance. 
Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick. 
And  darkening  and  enlightening,  as  the  leaves 
Play  wanton  e  'ery  moment,  every  spot." 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  30^ 

What  xquisite  description !  And  who,  acquainted  with 
Cowper,  ever  walked  in  a  wood  when  the  sun  shone,  and  the 
wind  ruffled  the  leaves,  without  realizing  it !  It  was  too  dead 
a  calm  to-day  to  show  ine  the  dancing-  light  and  shadow  where 
the  picture  had  first  been  taken :  the  feathery  outline  of  the 
foliage  lay  in  diluted  black,  moveless  on  the  grass,  like  the 
foliage  of  an  Indian-ink  drawing  newly  washed  in ;  but  all 
else  was  present,  just  as  Cowper  had  described  half  a  century 
before.  Two  minutes'  walk,  after  passing  through  the  avenue, 
brought  me  to  the  upper  corner  of  the  park,  and  "the  proud 
alcove  that  crowns  it,"  —  for  the  "proud  alcove"  does  still 
crown  it.  But  time,  and  the  weather,  and  rotting  damps,  seem 
to  be  working  double  tides  on  the  failing  pile,  and  it  will  not 
crown  '♦  long.  The  alcove  is  a  somewhat  clumsy  erection  of 
wood  and  plaster,  with  two  squat  wooden  columns  in  front,  of 
a  hybrid  order  between  the  Tuscan  and  Doric,  and  a  seat 
within.  A  crop  of  dark-coloied  mushrooms  cherished  by  the 
damp  summer  had  shot  up  along  the  joints  of  the  decaying 
floor;  the  plaster,  flawed  and  much  stained,  dangled  from  the 
ceiling  in  numerous  little  bits,  suspended,  like  the  sword  of 
old,  by  single  hairs  ;  the  broad  deal  architrave  had  given  way 
at  one  end,  but  the  bolt  at  the  other  still  proved  true ;  and  so  it 
lung  diagonally  athwart  the  two  columns,  like  the  middle  liar 
jf  a  gigantic  letter  N.  The  "characters  uncouth"  of  the 
"rural  carvers"  are,  however,  still  legible;  and  not  a  few 
names  have  since  been  added.  Th"'«  upper  corner  of  the  park 
forms  its  highest  ground,  and  the  view  is  very  fine.  The 
streainless  dell  —  not  streamless  always,  however,  for  the  poet 
describes  the  urn  of  its  little  Naiad  as  filled  in  winter — lies 
immediately  in  front,  and  we  see  the  wood  within  its  hollow 
recesses,  a?  if  "sunk,  and  shortened  to  the  topnost  boughs." 
The  gree-    undulating  sirface  of  the  park,  still  more  deeply 


310  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

grooied  ir  the  distance  by  the  diagonal  valley,  and  mottlea 
with  trees,  stretches  away  beyond  to  the  thick  belting  of  tall 
wood  below.  There  is  a  wide  opening,  just  where  the  valley 
opens,  —  a  great  gap  in  an  immense  hedge, —  that  gives  access 
to  the  further  landscape  ;  the  decent  spire  of  John  Newton's 
church  rises,  about  two  miles  away,  as  the  central  object  in 
the  vista  thus  formed  ;  we  see  in  front  a  few  silvery  reaches  of 
the  Ouse  ;  and  a  blue  uneven  line  of  woods  that  runs  along 
the  horizon  closes  in  the  prospect.  The  nearer  objects  within 
^he  pale  of  the  park,  animate  and  inanimate,  —  the  sheepfold 
and  its  sheep,  the  hay-wains,  empty  and  full,  as  they  pass  and 
repass  to  and  from  the  hay-field,  —  the  distinctive  characters 
of  the  various  trees,  and  their  shortened  appearance  in  the 
streamless  valley,  —  occupy  by  much  the  larger  part  of  Cow- 
per's  description  from  the  alcove  ;  while  the  concluding  five 
lines  afford  a  bright  though  brief  glimpse  of  tne  remoter  pros- 
pect, as  seen  through  the  opening.  But  1  must  not  withhold 
the  description  itself,  —  at  once  so  true  to  nature  and  so  instinct 
with  poetry,  —  familiar  as  it  must  prove  to  the  great  bulk  of 
my  readers. 

"  Now  roves  the  eye  ; 
And,  posted  on  this  speculative  height, 
Exults  in  its  command.     The  sheepfold  here 
Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o'er  the  glebe. 
At  first,  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 
The  middle  field  ;  but,  scattered  by  degrees. 
Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 
There  from  the  sunburnt  hay-field  homeward  creeps 
The  loaded  wain  ;  while,  lightened  of  its  charge, 
The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by. 
The  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team. 
Vociferous  and  impatient  of  delay. 
Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  scene, 
Diversified  with  trees  of  various  growth, 
Alike  yet  various.     Here  the  gray  smooth  trunka 


ENGLAND     AND     ITS     PEOPLE.  311 

Of  ash,  or  lime,  or  beech,  distinctly  shine 
Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shades  ; 
There,  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood 
Seems  sunk,  and  shortened  to  its  topmost  bougha. 
No  tree  in  all  the  grove  but  has  its  charms, 
Though  each  its  hue  peculiar  ;  paler  some. 
And  of  a  wannish  gray  ;  the  willow  such. 
And  poplar,  that  with  silver  lines  his  leaf, 
And  ash  far  stretching  his  umbrageous  arm ; 
Of  deeper  green  the  elm  ;  and  deeper  still. 
Lord  of  the  woods,  the  long-surviving  oak. 
Some  glossy-leaved,  and  shining  in  the  sun. 
The  maple,  and  the  beech  of  oily  nuts 
Prolific,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 
Ditfusing  odors  :  nor  unnoted  pass 
The  sycamore,  capricious  in  attire. 
Now  green,  now  tawny,  and,  ere  autumn  yet 
Have  changed  the  woods,  in  scai-let  honors  bright. 
O'er  these,  but  far  beyond  (a  spacious  map 
Of  hill  and  valley  interposed  between), 
The  Ouse,  dividing  the  well-watered  laud. 
Now  glitters  in  the  sun,  and  now  retires. 
As  bashful,  yet  impatient  to  be  seen." 

Quitting  the  alcove,  we  skirt  the  top  of  the  park  of  tne 
Throckmortons,  on  a  retired  grassy  walk  that  runs  straight  us 
a  tightened  cord  along  the  middle  of  the  belting  which  forms 
the  park's  upper  boundary, —  its  enclosing  hedge,  if  1  may  w 
speak  without  oflence  to  the  dignity  of  the  ancient  forest-trees 
which  compose  it.  There  is  a  long  hne  :"f  squat  broad-stemmed 
chestnuts  on  either  hand,  that  fling  their  interlacing  arms 
&thv/tLrt  the  pathway,  and  bury  it,  save  where  here  and  there 
the  sun  breaks  in  through  a  gap,  in  deep  shade  ;  but  the  roof 
overhead,  uulike  that  of  the  ancient  avenue  already  described, 
IS  not  the  roof  of  a  lofty  nave  in  the  light,  florid  style,  lul  of 
a  low-browed,  thickly-ribbed  Saxon  crypt,  flanked  by  pojder- 
ous  columns,  of  dwarfish  stature,  but  gigantic  strength.     And 


312  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

this  double  tier  of  chestnuts,  extended  along  the  park-top  from 
corner  to  corner,  is  the  identical  "  length  ot  colonnade  "  eulo- 
gized by  Cowper  in  "  The  Task"  :  — 

"Monument  of  ancient  taste, 
Now  scorned,  but  worthy  of  a  better  fate  ; 
Our  fathers  knew  the  value  of  a  screen 
From  sultry  suns  ;  and,  in  their  shaded  walks 
And  long-protracted  bowers,  enjoyed  at  noon 
The  gloom  and  coolness  of  declining  day. 
Thanks  to  Benevolus,  —  he  spares  me  yet 
These  chestnuts  ranged  in  corresponding  lines  ; 
And,  though  himself  so  polished,  still  reprieves 
Their  obsolete  prolixity  of  shade." 

Half-way  on,  we  descend  into  the  diagonal  valley, —  "  but  cau- 
tious, lest  too  fast,"  —  just  where  it  enters  the  park  from  the 
uplands,  and  find  at  its  bottom  the  "  rustic  bridge."  It  was 
rustic  when  at  its  best,  —  an  arch  of  some  four  feet  span  or  so, 
built  of  undressed  stone,  fenced  with  no  parapet,  and  covered 
over  head  by  a  green  breadth  of  turf;  and  it  is  now  both  rustic 
and  ruinous  to  boot,  for  one-half  the  arch  has  fallen  in.  The 
stream  is  a  mere  sluggish  runnel,  much  overhung  by  hawthorn 
bushes :  there  are  a  good  many  half-grown  oaks  scattered 
about  in  the  hollow;  while  on  either  hand  the  old  massy 
chestnuts  top  the  acclivities. 

Leaving  the  park  at  the  rustic  bridge,  by  a  gap  in  the  fence, 
my  guide  and  I  struck  outwards  through  the  valley  towards 
the  uplands.  We  had  left,  on  crossing  the  hedge,  the  scene 
of  the  walk  in  "  The  Task ;"  but  there  is  no  getting  away  m 
this  locality  from  Cowper.  The  first  field  we  stepped  mto 
"adjoming  close  to  Kilwick's  echoing  wood,"  is  that  described 
m  the  "Needless  Alarm;"  and  we  were  on  our  way  to  visit 
"  Yardley  oak."  The  poet,  conscious  of  his  great  wealth  in 
the  pictorial,  was  no  niggard  in  description ;  and  so  the  field. 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  313 

Jhough  not  very  remarkable  for  anything,  has  had  its  picture 
drawn. 

"A  narrow  brook,  by  rushy  banks  concealed. 
Runs  in  a  bottom  and  divides  tbe  field  ; 
Oaks  intersperse  it  that  had  once  a  head, 
But  now  wear  crests  of  oven-wood  instead  ; 
And  where  the  land  slopes  to  its  watery  bourn. 
Wide  yawns  a  gulf  beside  a  ragged  thorn. 
Bricks  line  tlie  sides,  but  shivered  long  ago. 
And  horrid  brambles  intertwine  below  ; 
A  hollow  scooped,  I  judge,  in  ancient  time, 
For  baking  earth  or  burning  rock  to  lime." 

Ihe  "  narrow  brook  "  here  is  that  which,  passing  downwards 
into  the  park,  runs  underneath  the  rustic  bridge,  and  flows 
towards  the  Oiise  through  the  diagonal  valley.  The  field 
Itself,  which  lies  on  one  of  the  sides  of  the  valley,  and  presents 
rather  a  steep  slope  to  the  plough,  has  still  its  sprinkling  of 
trees ;  but  the  oaks,  with  the  oven-wood  crests,  have  nearly  all 
disappeared  ;  and  for  the  "gulf  beside  the  thorn,"  I  could  find 
but  a  small  oblong,  steep-sided  pond,  half  overshadowed  by  an 
ash-tree.  Improvement  has  sadly  defaced  the  little  field  since 
it  sat  for  its  portrait ;  for  though  never  cropped  in  Squire  Cow- 
pcr's  days,  as  the  woman  told  me,  it  now  lies,  like  the  ordinary 
work-day  pieces  of  ground  beyond  and  beside  it,  in  a  state  of 
careful  tillage,  and  smelt  rank  at  the  time  of  a  flourishing 
turnip  crop.  "0,"  said  the  woman,  who  for  the  last  minute 
had  been  poking  about  the  hedge  for  something  which  she 
could  not  find,  "  do  you  know  that  the  Squire  was  a  beautiful 
drawer?"  —  "I  know  that  he  drew,"  I  replied  ;  "but  I  do  not 
know  that  his  drawings  were  fine  ones.  I  have  in  Scotland  a 
great  book  filled  with  the  Squire's  letters ;  and  I  have  learned 
from  it.  that  ere  he  set  himself  to  write  his  long  poems,  he 
used  to  draw  'mountains  and  valleys,  and  "lucks  and  dab- 
27 


314  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

chicks,'  and  that  he  threatened  to  charge  his  friends  at  thi- 
rate  of  a  halfpenny  a  piece  for  them." —  'Ah"'  said  the 
woman,  "  but  he  drew  grandly,  for  all  that ;  and  I  have  just 
been  looking  for  a  kind  of  thistle  that  used  to  grow  here,  —  but 
the  farmer  has,  I  find,  weeded  it  all  out,  —  that  he  made  many 
fine  pictures  of.  I  have  seen  one  of  them  with  Lady  Hesketh, 
that  her  ladyship  thought  very  precious.  The  thistle  was  a 
pretty  thistle,  and  I  am  sorry  they  are  all  gone.  It  had  a  deep 
red  flower,  set  round  with  long  thorns  ;  and  the  green  of  the 
leaves  was  crossed  with  bright  white  streaks."  I  inferred  from 
the  woman's  description  that  the  plant  so  honored  by  Cowper's 
pencil  must  have  been  the  "milk  thistle,"  famous  in  legendary 
lore  for  bearing  strong  trace  on  its  leaves  of  gl  ssy  green  of 
the  milk  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  dropped  on  it  ir  the  flight  tc 
Egypt. 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  315 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Vard.ey  Oak  ;  of  immense  Size  and  imposing  Appear?  iice. —  Cowper'a 
Description  singularly  illustrative  of  his  complete  Mastery  over  Lan- 
guage. —  Peasant's  Nest.  —  The  Poet's  Vocation  peculiarly  one  of 
Revolution.  —  The  School  of  Pope  ;  supplanted  in  its  unproductive  Old 
Age  by  that  of  Cowper.  —  Cowper's  Coadjutors  in  the  Work.  —  Econ- 
omy of  Literary  Revolution. —  The  old  English  Yeoman.  —Quit  Olney. 
—  Companions  in  the  Journey. —  Incident.  —  Newport  Pagnell.  —  Mr. 
Bull  and  the  French  Mystics.—  Lady  of  the  Fancy.  —  Champion  of  all 
England.  —  Pugilism.  —  Anecdote. 

Half  an  hour's  leisurely  walking  —  and,  in  consideration 
of  my  companion's  three  score  and  eleven  summers,  our  walk- 
ing 2£'as  exceedingly  leisurely — brought  us,  through  field  and 
dingle,  and  a  country  that  presented,  as  we  ascended,  less  of 
an  agricultural  and  more  of  a  pastoral  character,  to  the  woods 
of  Yardley  Lodge.  We  enter  through  a  coppice  on  a  grassy 
field,  and  see  along  the  opposite  side  a  thick  oak  wood,  with  a 
solitary  brick  house,  the  only  one  in  sight,  half  hidden  amid 
foliage  in  a  corner.  The  oak  wood  has,  we  find,  quite  a  char- 
acter of  its  own.  The  greater  part  of  its  trees,  still  in  their 
immature  youth,  were  seedlings  within  the  last  forty  years : 
they  have  no  associates  that  bear  in  their  well-developed  pro- 
portions, untouched  by  decay,  the  stamp  of  solid  mid-aged  tree 
hood;  but  here  and  there,  —  standing  up  among  them,  like  the 
'ong-lived  sons  of  Noah,  in  their  old  age  of  many  centuries, 
nn)id  a  race  cut  down  to  the  three  score  and  ten, —  we  find 
^ome  of  the  most  ancient  oaks  in  the  empire,  —  trees  that  were 
trees  in  the  days  of  William  the  Conqueror.  These  are  mere 
hollow  ♦  'inks,  of  vast  bulk,  but  stinted  foliage   in   tvhich   the 


310  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OP 

fox  shelters  an_  the  owl  builds,  — mere  struldbrugs  of  the  for- 
est. The  bulkiest  and  most  picturesque  among  their  number 
we  find  marked  by  a  white-lettered  board:  it  is  a  hollow  pol- 
lard of  enormous  girth,  twenty-eight  feet  five  inches  in  circum 
ference  a  foot  above  the  soil,  with  skeleton  stumps,  bleachec 
»vhite  by  the  winters  of  many  centuries,  stretching  out  for  a  few 
inches  from  amid  a  ragged  drapery  of  foliage  that  sticks  close 
to  the  body  of  the  tree,  and  bearing  on  its  rough  gray  bole 
Wv3ns  and  warts  of  astounding  magnitude.  The  trunk,  leaning 
slightly  forward,  and  wearing  all  its  huger  globosities  behind, 
seems  some  fantastic  old-world  mammoth,  seated  kangaroo- 
fashion  on  its  haunches.  Its  foliage  this  season  had  caught  a 
tinge  of  yellow,  when  the  younger  trees  all  around  retained 
their  hues  of  deep  green ;  and,  seen  in  the  bold  relief  which  it 
owed  to  the  circumstance,  it  reminded  me  of  iEneas'  golden 
branch,  glittering  bright  amid  the  dark  woods  of  Cumea.  And 
such  is  Yardley  oak,  the  subject  of  one  of  the  finest  descrip- 
tions in"  English  poetry,  —  one  of  the  most  characteristic,  too, 
of  the  muse  of  Cowper.  If  asked  to  illustrate  that  peculiar 
power  which  he  possessed  above  all  modern  poets,  of  taking 
the  most  stubborn  and  untractable  words  in  the  language,  and 
bending  them  with  all  ease  round  his  thinking,  so  as  to  fit  its 
every  indentation  and  irregularity  of  outline,  as  the  ship-carpen- 
ter adjusts  the  stubborn  planking,  grown  flexible  in  his  hand, 
to  the  exact  mould  of  his  vessel,  I  would  at  once  instance  some 
parts  of  the  description  of  Yardley  oak.  But  farewell,  noble 
tree !  so  old  half  a  century  ago,  when  the  poet  con  erred  on 
thpfi  immortality,  that  thou  dost  not  seem  older  now ! 

•  ■  Time  made  thee  what  thou  wast,  —  king  of  the  woods  ; 
And  Time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art,  —  a  cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in.     Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
O'erhung  the  champaign  ;  and  the  numerous  flocks 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  31? 

rhat  grazed  it  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 

Uncrowded,  yet  safe  sheltered  from  the  storm. 

No  flock  frequents  thee  now.     Thou  hast  outlived 

Thy  popularity,  and  art  become 

(Unless  verse  rescue  thee  a  while)  a  thing 

Forgotten  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth. 

While  thus  through  all  the  stages  thou  hast  pushed 

Of  treeship,  —  first  a  seedling  hid  in  grass  ; 

Then  twig  ;  then  sapling  ;  and,  as  century  rolled 

Slow  after  century,  a  giant  bulk 

Of  girth  enormous,  with  moss-cushioned  root 

Upheaved  above  the  soil,  and  sides  embossed 

With  prominent  wens  globose,  —  till,  at  the  last. 

The  rottenness,  which  time  is  charged  to  inflict 

On  other  mighty  ones,  found  also  thee." 

.  returned  with  my  guide  to  the  rustic  br-dge,  resumed  my 
v^alk  through  the  hitherto  unexplored  half  of  the  chestnut 
r-olonnade ;  turned  the  corner ;  and  then,  passing  downwards 
along  the  lower  side  of  the  park,  through  neglected  thickets,  •  - 
the  remains  of  an  extensive  nursery  run  wild,  —  I  struck  out 
wards  beyond  its  precincts,  and  reached  a  whitened  dwelling- 
house  that  had  been  once  the  "  Peasant's  Nest."  But  nowhere 
else  in  the  course  of  my  walk  had  the  hand  of  improvement 
misimproved  so  sadly.     For  the  hill-top  cottage, 

"  Environed  wi*h  a  ring  of  branchy  elms 
That  overhung  the  thatch," 

I  found  a  modern  hard-cast  farm-house,  with  a  square  ot  ofhces 
attached,  all  exceedingly  utilitarian,  well  kept,  stiff,  and  disj- 
greeable.  It  was  sad  enough  to  find  an  erection  that  a  jour 
neyman  bricklayer  could  have  produced  in  a  single  monti' 
substituted  for  the  "peaceful  covert"  Cowper  had  so  ofte" 
wished  his  own,  and  which  he  had  so  frequently  and  fondly 
visited.     But  those  beauties  of  situation  which  avvakened  thf 


31S  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

admiration,  and  even  half  excited  the  envy,  af  the  poet 
improvement  could  not  alter;  and  so  they  are  now  what  they 
ever  were.  The  diagonal  valley  to  which  I  have  had  such 
frequent'  occasion  to  refer  is  just  escaping  from  the  park  at  its 
lower  corner:  the  slope,  which  rises  from  the  runnel  to  the 
level,  still  lies  on  the  one  hand  within  the  enclosure ;  but  it  has 
escaped  fr:.n  it  on  the  other,  and  forms,  where  it  merges  into 
the  highei  grounds,  the  hill-top  on  which  the  "  Nest "  stands  , 
and  the  prospect,  no  longer  bounded  by  the  tall  belting  of  the 
park,  i?  it  once  very  extensive  and  singularly  beautiful. 

"  Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 
Of  spacious  meads,  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er. 
Conducts  the  eye  along  its  sinuous  course 
Delighted.     There,  fast^rooted  in  their  bank. 
Stand,  never  overlooked,  our  fjivorite  elms, 
That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut ; 
While  fVxr  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream. 
That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale. 
The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds. 
Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedge-row  beauties  numberless,  square  towers. 
Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear. 
Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages  remote." 

Leaving  the  farm-house,  1  descended  into  the  valley ;  passed 
Rlong  a  tangled  thl,  ket  of  yew,  plane  and  hazel,  in  which  I 
lingered  a  while  to  pick  blackberries  and  nuts,  where  Cowper 
may  have  picked  them ;  came  out  upon  the  Olney  road  by  the 
wicket  gate  through  which  he  used  to  quit  the  highway  and 
strike  up  to  the  woodlands  ;  and,  after  making  my  old  woman 
particularly  happy  by  a  small  gratuity,  returned  to  Olney. 

I  trust  it  will  not  be  held  that  my  descriptions  of  this  old- 
fashioned  pi  :k,  with  its  colonnade  and  its  avenues,  its  dells 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  319 

and  its  <}  ingles,  its  alcove  and  its  wilderness,  have  been  too 
minute.  It  has  an  interest  as  independent  of  any  mere  beauty 
or  picturesqueness  which  it  may  possess,  as  the  field  of  Ban- 
nockburn  oi  the  meadows  of  Runnimede.  It  indicates  the 
fulcrum,  if  I  may  so  speak,  on  which  the  lev^er  of  a  great  orig- 
inal genius  first  rested,  when  it  upturned  from  its  foundations 
an  effete  school  of  English  verse,  and  gave  to  the  literature  of 
(he  country  a  new  face.  Its  scenery,  idealized  into  poetry, 
wrought  one  of  the  greatest  literary  revolutions  of  which  the 
history  of  letters  preserves  any  record.  The  school  of  Pope, 
originally  of  but  small  compass,  had  sunk  exceedingly  low  ere 
the  times  of  Cowper :  it  had  become,  like  Nebuchadnezzar's 
tree,  a  brass-bound  stump,  that  sent  forth  no  leafage  of  refresh- 
ing green,  and  no  blossoms  of  pleasant  smell ;  and  yet,  for  con- 
siderably more  than  half  a  century,  it  had  been  the  only  exist* 
ing  English  school.  And  when  the  first  volume  of  "Poems 
by  William  Cowper,  Esq.,  of  the  Inner  Temple,"  issued  from 
the  press,  there  seemed  to  be  no  prospect  whatever  of  any  other 
school  rising  to  supplant  it.  Several  writers  of  genius  had 
appeared  in  the  period,  and  had  achieved  for  themselves  a 
standing  in  literature ;  nor  were  they  devoid  of  the  originality, 
in  both  their  thinking  and  the  form  of  it,  without  which  no 
writer  becomes  permanently  eminent.  But  their  originality 
was  specific  and  individual,  and  terminated  with  themselves; 
whereas  the  school  of  Pope,  whatever  its  other  defects,  was  ol 
a  generic  character.  A  second  Collins,  a  second  Gray,  a  sec 
ond  Goldsmith,  would  have  been  mere  timid  imitators,  —  mere 
mock  Paganin'  s,  playing  each  on  the  one  exquisite  string  of 
his  master,  and  serving  by  his  happiest  efforts  but  to  establish 
the  fidelity  of  the  imitation.  But  the  poetry  of  Pope  formed 
an  instrument  of  larger  compass  and  a  more  extensive  gamut, 
*nd  left  the  disciples  room  to  achieve  for  themselves,  in  nui 


320  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ning  over  the  notes  of  their  master,  a  certain  amount  of  origii« 
ality  Lyttelton's  "  Advice  to  Belinda,"  and  Johnson's  "  Lon- 
don,' exhibit  tlie  stamp  of  very  different  minds ;  and  the 
"  Pursuits  of  Literature  "  is  quite  another  sort  of  poem  from  the 
•'  Triumphs  of  Temper ;  "  but  they  all  alike  belong  to  the 
school  of  Pope,  and  bear  the  impress  of  the  "  Moral  Essays," 
the  "  Satires,"  or  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock."  The  poetical 
mind  of  England  had  taken  an  inveterate  jet ;  it  had  grown  up 
into  artificial  attitudes,  like  some  superannuated  posture-maker, 
and  had  lost  the  gait  and  air  natural  to  it.  Like  the  painter 
in  the  fable,  it  drew  its  portraits  less  from  the  life  than  from 
cherished  models  and  familiar  casts  approved  by  the  connois- 
seur ;  and  exhibited  nature,  when  it  at  all  exhibited  it,  through 
a  dim  haze  of  colored  conventionalities.  And  this  school 
grown  rigid  and  unfeeling  in  its  unproductive  old  age,  it  was 
part  of  the  mission  of  Cowper  to  supplant  and  destroy.  He  re- 
stored to  English  literature  the  wholesome  freshness  of  nature 
and  sweetened  and  invigorated  its  exliausted  atmosphere,  b^ 
letting  in  upon  it  the  cool  breeze  and  the  bright  sunshine.  The 
old  park,  with  its  noble  trees  and  sequestered  valleys,  were  tc 
oim  what  the  writings  of  Pope  and  of  Pope's  disciples  were  to 
his  contemporaries :  he  renewed  poetry  by  doing  what  the  first 
poets  had  done. 

It  is  not  uninteresting  to  mark  the  plan  on  which  nature 
delights  to  operate  in  producing  a  renovation  of  this  character 
in  the  literature  of  a  country.  Cowper  had  two  vigorous  coad- 
jutors in  the  work  of  revolution ;  and  all  three,  though  essen- 
tially unlike  in  other  respects,  resembled  one  another  in  the 
preliminary  course  through  which  they  were  prepared  for  their 
proper  employment.  Circumstances  had  conspired  to  throw 
them  all  outside  the  pale  of  the  existing  literature.  Cowper. 
at  i\  i  rpe  age  of  thirty-three,  when  breathing  in  London  the 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  321 

literary  atmosj.here  of  the  aay,  amid  his  friends,  —  the  Lloyds, 
Colmans,  and  Bonnel  Thorntons,  —  was  a  clever  and  tasteful 
imitator,  but  an  imitator  merely,  both  in  his  prose  and  his  verse. 
His  prose  in  "  The  Connoisseur  "  is  a  feeble  echo  of  that  of 
Addison;  while  in  his  verse  we  find  unequivocal  traces  of 
Prior,  of  Philips,  and  of  Pope,  but  scarce  any  trace  whatever 
of  a  poet  at  least  not  inferior  to  the  best  of  them,—  Cowper 
nimself.  '  Events  over  which  he  had  no  control  suddenly 
removed  him  outside  this  atmosphere,  and  dropped  him  into  a 
profound  retirement,  in  which  for  nearly  twenty  yeais  he  did 
not  peruse  the  works  of  any  English  poet.  The  chimes  of  the 
existing  literature  had  fairly  rung  themselves  out  of  his  head, 
ere,  with  a  heart  grown  familiar  in  the  interval  with  all  earnest 
feeling,  —  an  intellect  busied  with  ever  ripening  cogitation,  — 
an  eye  and  ear  conversant,  day  after  day,  and  year  after  year, 
with  the  face  and  voice  of  nature,  —  he  struck,  as  the  key- 
notes of  his  own  noble  poetry,  a  series  of  exquisitely  modulated 
tones,  that  had  no  counterparts  in  the  artificial  gamut.  Had 
his  preparatory  course  been  different,  —  had  he  been  kept  in 
the  busy  and  literary  world,  instead  of  passing,  in  his  insulated 
solitude,  through  the  term  of  second  education,  which  made 
him  what  we  all  know, —  it  seems  i.jore  than  questionable 
whether  Cowper  would  have  ever  taken  his  place  in  litcraturo 
as  a  great  original  poet.*     His  two  coadjutors  in  the  work  ot 

*  Cowper  iiimself  seems  to  have  been  thoroughly  aware  that  his  Jong 
seclusion  from  the  world  of  letters  told  in  his  favsr.  "  I  reckon  it  among 
my  principal  advantages  as  a  composer  of  verses,"  we  find  him  saying,  in 
one  of  his  letters  to  the  younger  Unwin,  "  that  I  have  not  read  an  English 
poet  these  thirteen  years,  and  but  one  these  twenty  years.  Imitation 
3ven  of  the  best  models  la  my  aversion.  It  is  servile  and  mechanical,  — 
a  trick  that  has  enabled  many  to  usurp  the  name  of  author,  who  could  not 
have  written  at  all,  if  they  had  not  written  upon  the  pattern  of  some  one 
indeed  orig  n  il.     But  when  the  ear  and  taste  have  been  much  accustomed 


322  F  RST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

literary  revolation  were  George  Crabbe  and  Robert  Burnis 
The  one,  self-taught,  and  wholly  shut  out  from  the  world  of 
letters,  laid  in  hi  vast  stores  of  observation,  fresh  from  nature 
in  an  obscure  fisl  ing  village  on  the  coast  of  Suffolk ;  the  other 
educated  in  exactly  the  same  style  and  degree,  —  Crabbe  had 
a  little  bad  Latin,  and  Burns  a  little  bad  French,  —  and  equally 
secluded  from  the  existing  literature,  achieved  the  same  im- 
portant work  on  the  bleak  farm  of  Mossgiel.  And  the  earlier 
compositions  of  these  three  poets,  —  all  of  them  true  backwoods- 
men in  the  republic  of  letters,  —  clearers  of  new  and  untried 
fields  in  the  rich  unopened  provinces,  —  appeared  within  five 
years  of  each  other — Crabbe's  first  and  Burns'  last.  This 
process  of  renovating  a  worn-out  literature  does  certainly  seem 
a  curious  one.  Circumstances  virtually  excommunicated  three 
of  the  great  poetic  minds  of  the  age,  and  flung  them  outside 
the  literary  pale ;  and  straightway  they  became  founders  of 
churches  of  their  own,  and  carried  away  with  them  all  the 
people. 

Cowper,  however,  was  better  adapted  by  nature,  and  more 
prepared  by  previous  accomplishment,  for  the  work  of  literary 
revolution,  than  either  Burns  or  Crabbe.  His  poetry  —  to 
return  to  a  previous  illustration,  rather,  however,  indicated  than 
actually  employed  —  was  in  the  natural  what  Pope's  was  in 
the  artificial  walk,  —  of  a  generic  character;  whereas  theirs 
was  of  a  strongly  specific  cast.  The  writers  who  have  followed 
Crabbe  and  Burns  we  at  once  detect  as  imitators ;  whereas  the 
writers  to  whom  Cowper  furnished  the  starting  note  have 
attained  to  the  dignity  of  originals.  He  withdrew  their  atten- 
tion   from   the    old   models,  —  thoroughly    commonplaced   by 

to  the  manner  of  others,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  avoid  it;  and  we  imi- 
tate in  spito  of  ourselves,  just  in  proportion  as  we  admire."  {Com- 
tyvndmce,  1781.) 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  323 

-eproductioa  — and  sent  them  out  into  the  fields  and  (he 
woods  with  greatly  enlarged  vocah'ilaries,  to  describe  new  things 
in  fresh  lang-uaoe.  And  thus  has  he  exercised  an  indirect  but 
potent  influence  on  the  thinking  and  mode  of  description  of 
poets  whose  writings  furnish  little  or  no  trace  of  his  peculiar 
style  or  manner.  Even  in  style  and  manner,  however,  we  dis- 
cover in  his  pregnant  writings  the  half-developed  germs  of  aflci 
schools.  In  his  lyrics  we  find,  for  instance,  the  starting  notea 
of  not  a  few  of  the  happiest  lyrics  of  Campbell.  Che  noble  ode 
"On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George"  must  have  been  ringing 
in  the  ears  of  the  poet  who  produced  the  "  Battle  of  the  Baltic  ;  '* 
and  had  the  "  Castaway  "  and  the  "  Poplar  Field  "  been  first 
given  to  the  world  in  company  with  the  "  Exile  of  Erin  "  and 
the  "  Soldier's  Dream,"  no  critic  could  have  ever  suspected  that 
they  had  emanated  from  quite  another  pen.  We  may  find 
similar  traces  in  his  works  of  the  minor  poems  of  the  Lake 
School.  "  The  Distressed  Travellers,  or  Labor  in  Vain ;  " 
"  The  Yearly  Distress,  or  Tithing-Time  ; "  "  The  Colubriad  ;  " 
«  The  Retired  Cat ;  "  "  The  Dog  and  the  Water  Lily  ;  "  and 
"  The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin,"  —  might  have  all 
made  their  first  appearance  among  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  and 
would  certainly  have  formed  high  specimens  of  the  work.  But 
it  is  not  form  and  manner  that  the  restored  literature  of  Eng- 
land mainly  owes  to  Cowper, —  it  is  spirit  and  life;  not  so 
much  any  particular  mode  of  exhibiting  nature,  as  a  revival  of 
the  habit  of  looking  at  it 

I  had  selected  as  my  inn  at  Olney  a  quiet  old  house,  Icept 
by  a  quiet  old  man,  who,  faithful  to  bygone  greatness,  con- 
tinued to  sell  his  ale  under  the  somewat  faded  countenance  of 
the  late  Duke  of  York.  On  my  return,  1  found  him  smoking 
a  pipe,  in  his  clean,  tile-paved  kitchen,  with  a  man  nearly  as 
old  as  "  .:mse]f,  but  exceedingly  vigorous  for  his  years,  —  a  f:e.sh« 


324  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OK 

colored,  s  uare-shouldered,  deep-chested,  English-looking  man, 
with  good  sense  and  frank  good-humor  broadly  impressed  on 
evejy  feat  ..re.  The  warm  day  and  the  long  walk  had'rendered 
me  exceed'  ngly  thirsty :  I  had  been  drinking,  as  I  came  along, 
at  every  runnel ;  and  I  now  asked  the  landlord  whether  he 
could  not  get  me  something  to  slake  my  drought  less  heady 
than  his  ale.  "  O,"  said  his  companion,  taking  from  his  pocket 
half  a  dozen  fine  jargonelle  pears,  and  sweeping  them  towards 
me  across  the  old  oak  table,  "  these  are  the  things  for  your 
thirst."  I  thanked  him,  and  picked  out  of  the  heap  a  single 
pear.  "  0,"  he  exclaimed,  in  the  same  tone  of  refreshing 
frankness,  "  take  all,  take  all ;  they  are  all  of  my  own  rearing  ; 
I  have  abundance  more  on  my  trees  at  home."  With  so  pro- 
pitious a  beginning,  we  were  soon  engaged  in  conversation. 
He  was,  as  I  afterwards  learned  from  my  host,  a  very  worthy 
man,  Mr.  Hales,  of  Pemberton,  the  last,  or  nearly  the  last,  of 
the  race  of  old  English  yeomen  in  this  part  of  the  country. 
His  ancestors  had  held  their  small  property  of  a  few  fields  for 
centuries,  and  he  continued  to  hold  it  still.  He  well  remem- 
bered Cowper,  he  told  me ;  Newton  had  left  Olney  before  his 
day,  some  sixty-five  or  sixty-six  years  ago ;  but  of  Thomas 
Scott  he  had  some  slight  recollection.  The  connection  of  these 
men  with  the  locality  had  exerted,  he  said,  a  marked  influence 
on  the  theologic  opinions  and  beliefs  of  the  people ;  and  there 
were  few  places  in  England,  in  consequence,  in  which  the 
Puseyistic  doctrines  had  made  less  way.  The  old  parishioners 
of  Newton  and  Scott,  and  the  town's  folk  and  neighbors  of 
Cowper,  had  felt,  of  course,  an  interest  in  their  writings ;  and 
so  there  were  more  copies  of  the  "  Poems,"  and  the  "  Cardi- 
phonia,"  and  the  "  Force  of  Truth,"  and  the  "  Essays,"  scattered 
ever  the  pla  "e,  than  over  perhaps  any  other  locality  in  England . 
4nd  so  the  truth  was  at  least  known  in  Olney,  and  its  neigh- 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  325 

lorhood,  whatever  use  might  be  maae  of  it  I  inquired 
whether  he  had  ever  heard  of  one  Moses  Brown,  ;vho  had  been 
curate  in  Olney  exactly  a  hundred  years  before,  —  a  good  man, 
\  poet,  and  a  friend  of  James  Hervey,  and  whose  poems, 
descriptive  and  devotional,  though  not  equal  by  a  great  deal  to 
those  of  Cowper,  had  passed  through  several  editions  in  their 
(lay.  Mr.  Hales  had  barely  heard  that  such  a  man  there  had 
been,  and  had  some  recollection  of  an  aged  woman,  one  of  his 
(laughters.  I  parted  from  the  old  frank  yeoman,  glad  I  should 
have  seen  so  fine  a  specimen  of  a  class  fast  hastening  to  extinc- 
tion. The  reader  will  remember  that  Gulliver,  in  the  island 
of  the  sorcerers,  when  the  illustrious  dead  were  called  up  to 
hold  converse  with  him,  had  the  curiosity  to  summon,  among 
the  rest,  a  few  English  yeomen  of  the. old  stamp, —  "once  so 
famous,"  says  the  satirist,  "for  the  simplicity  of  their  manners, 
diet,  and  dress, —  for  justice  in  their  dealings,  —  for  their  true 
spirit  of  liberty  and  love  of  their  country."  And  I  deemed 
myself  somewhat  in  luck  in  having  found  a  representative  o^ 
the  class  still  in  the  land  of  the  living,  considerably  more  than 
a  century  after  Swift  had  deemed  it  necessary  to  study  his 
specimens  among  the  dead. 

After  exhausting  the  more  interesting  walks  of  the  place,  I 
quitted  Olney  next  morning  for  the  railway,  by  an  omnibus 
that  plies  daily  between  Bedford  and  Wolverton.  There  were 
two  gentlemen  in  the  vehicle.  The  one  dressed  very  neatly 
in  black,  with  a  white  neck-cloth  and  somewhat  prim-looking 
beaver  hat,  I  at  once  set  down  as  a  Dissenting  minister;  the 
other,  of  a  rather  more  secular  cast,  but  of  staid  and  sober 
aspect,  might,  I  inferred,  be  one  of  his  deacons  or  elders. 
They  were  engaged,  as  I  entered,  in  discussing  jome  thcologi 
cal  question  which  they  dropped,  however,  as  we  drove  on 
through  the  street,  and  evinced  a  cariosity  to  know  where 
2S 


326  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

Newton  and  Thomas  Scott  had  lived.  I  pointed  on  to  ti  em 
the  house  of  Cowper,  and  the  house  and  church  of  Newton 
and,  in  crossing  the  famous  bridge  over  the  Onse,  directed 
their  attention  to  the  distant  village  of  Weston-Underwood,  in 
which  Scott  had  officiated  for  many  years  as  a  curate.  And  so 
I  got  fairly  into  their  good  graces,  and  had  my  share  assigned 
me  in  the  conversation.  They  discussed  Newton  and  Scott, 
and  characterized  as  sound  and  excellent  the  "  Commentary  " 
of  the  one  and  the  "Letters  "  of  the  other ;  but  the  labors  of 
Cowper,  whose  rarer  genius,  and  intellect  of  finer  texture,  seemed 
removed  beyond  the  legitimate  range  of  their  appreciation, 
they  regarded  apparently  as  of  less  mark  and  importance.  1 
deemed  them  no  inadequate  representatives  of  a  worthy  sec- 
tion of  the  English  people,  and  of  an  obvious  power  in  the 
country,  —  a  power  always  honestly  and  almost  always  well 
directed,  but  rather  in  obedience  to  the  instincts  of  a  wise  relig- 
ion than  the  promptings  of  a  nicely-discriminating  intelligence. 
The  more  secular-looking  traveller  of  the  two,  on  ascertaining 
that  I  had  come  from  Edinburgh,  and  was  a  citizen  of  the 
place,  inquired  whether  I  was  not  a  parishioner  of  Dr.  Chal- 
mers,—  the  one  Scotchman,  by  the  way,  with  whose  name  1 
found  every  Englishman  of  any  intelligence  in  some  degree 
acquainted  ;  and  next,  whether  I  was  not  a  member  of  the 
Free  Church.  The  Disruption  both  gentlemen  regarded  as  a 
great  and  altogether  extraordinary  event.  They  knew  almost 
nothing  of  the  controversy  which  had  led  to  it;  but  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  simple  fact  of  which  it  was  an  embodiment, 
namely,  that  from  four  to  five  hundred  ministers  of  the  Estab- 
ishe''  Church  had  resigned  their  livings  on  a  point  of  prin- 
ciple. To  this  efTect,  at  least,  the  iron  tongue  of  rumor  had 
Mruck  with  no  uncertain  sound  ;  and  the  tones  were  of  a  k'nd 
euited  not  tc  lower  the  aspirations  of  the  religious  ser  timf'nt 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLK.  327 

nor  to  cast  a  shade  of  suspicicn  on  its  reality  as  a  principlt.  jf 
con  luct. 

In  the  middle  of  a  weary  asceni  immediately  over  the  old 
yeoman's  hamlet  of  Pemberton,  the  horse  that  dragged  us 
fairly  stood  still  :  and  so  we  had  to  get  out  and  walk ;  and 
though  we  paced  over  the  ground  quite  leisurely  enough,  both 
vehicle  and  driver  were  left  far  behind  ere  we  got  to  the  top 
of  the  hill.  We  paused,  and  paused,  and  sauntered  on  for  a 
few  hundred  yards  at  a  time,  and  then  paused  again  and  again  ; 
and  still  no  omnibus.  At  length,  the  driver  came  puffing  up 
behind  us  afoot,  on  the  way  to  Newport  Pagnell,  he  said,  for 
another  "hanimal,"  for  his  "  poor  boss  "  had  foundered  on  that 
"cussed  hill."  My  fellow-traveller,  the  presumed  deacon, 
proved  considerably  more  communicative  than  his  companion 
the  minister.  He  had,  I  found,  notwithstanding  his  gravit}-, 
some  town-bred  smartness  about  him,  and  was  just  a  little 
conceited  withal ;  or,  I  should  perhaps  rather  say,  was  no 
quite  devoid  of  what  constitutes  the  great  innate  impression  ol 
the  true  Englishman,  —  an  impression  of  his  own  superiority^ 
siiriply  in  virtue  of  his  country,  over  all  and  sundry  who  speak 
his  language  with  an  accent  not  native,  to  the  soil.  But  I 
never  yet  quarrelled  with  a  feeling  at  once  so  comfortable  ind 
so  harmless,  and  which  the  Scotch  —  though  in  a  form  less 
personal  as  it  regards  the  individual  entertaining  it,  and  with 
an  eye  more  to  Scotland  in  the  average  —  cherish  as  strongly ; 
and  so  the  Englishman  and  I  agreed  during  our  walk  excel- 
lently well.  He  had  unluckily  left  his  hat  in  the  vehicle, 
bringing  with  him  instead,  what  served  as  his  coach-cap,  a 
p'nched  Glengary  bonnet,  which,  it  must  be  confessed,  looked 
nearly  as  m'ch  out  of  place  on  his  head  as  Captain  Knock- 
dunder's  cocked  hat,  trimmed  witli  gold  lace,  when  mounted 
high  ever  philabeg  ami   plaid,  on    the  head  of  the  red  )ubted 


328  FIRST    fMPRESSIONS    OF 

captain.  And  on  nearing  the  village  of  Skirvington,  h^ 
seemed  to  feel  that  the  bonnet  was  not  the  sort  of  head-dress  in 
which  a  demure  Englishman  looked  most  himself.  "It  might 
do  well  enough  for  a  Scotchman  like  me,"  he  said,  "  but  not 
so  well  for  him."  I  wore,  by  chance,  a  tolerably  good  hat,  and 
proposed  making  a  temporary  exchange,  until  we  should  have 
passed  the  village ;  but  fate  declared  itself  against  the  trans- 
action. The  Englishman's  bonnet  would  have  lain,  we  found, 
like  a  coronet  upon  a  cushion  on  the  Scotch  head  ;  and  the 
Scotch  hat,  on  the  other  hand,  threatened  to  swallow  up  the 
Englishman.  I  found  myself  in  error  in  deeming  him  an  ac- 
quaintance of  our  fellow-traveller  the  minister  :  he  did  not  even 
know  his  name,  and  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  find  it  out,  — 
quite  fidgety  on  the  point ;  for  he  was,  he  said,  a  profoundly 
able  man,  and,  he  was  certain,  a  person  of  note.  x4t  the  inn  at 
Newport  Pagnell,  however,  he  succeeded,  I  know  not  how,  in 
ferreting  the  name  out;  and  whispered  into  my  ear,  as  we  went, 
that  he  was  assured  he  was  in  the  right  in  deeming  our  com- 
panion somebody :  the  gentleman  in  black  beside  us  was  no 

other  than   Dr. .     But   the  doctor's  name  was  wholly 

unfamiliar  to  me,  and  I  have  since  forgotten  it. 

Newport  Pagnell  !  I  had  but  just  one  association  with  the 
place,  besides  the  one  formed  as  I  had  passed  through  its  streets 
two  eveninofs  before,  on  the  nig-ht  of  riot  and  clamor  :  it  had 
been  for  many  years  the  home  of  worthy,  witty,  bluff  William 
Bull,  —  the  honest  Independent  minister  who  used  so  regularly 
to  visit  poor  Cowper  in  his  affliction,  ere  Cowper  had  yet 
become  famous,  and  whom  the  affectionate  poet  learned  sc 
cordially  to  love.  How  strangely  true  genius  does  brighten  up 
whatever  object  it  falls  upon !  It  is,  to  borrow  from  Sir  Wal- 
ter's illustration,  the  playful  sunbeam,  that,  capriciously  seleci- 
ng  som  3  little  bit  of  glass  or  earthen  ware  in  the   niddle  of 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOr.,E.  320 

a  ploughed  field,  renders  it  visible  across  half  a  country,  by 
the  light  which  it  pours  upon  it.  \n  old  astronomer,  ere  tha 
heavrns  had  been  filled  up  with  th<^'r  fantastic  signs,  —  crabs, 
and  lish,  and  scorpions,  bulls  and  rams,  and  young  ladies,  and 
locks  of  young  ladies'  hair, — could  give  a  favorite  toy  or  pet 
companion  a  place  in  the  sky  ;  but  it  is  only  the  true  poet  who 
possesses  an  analogous  power  now.  He  can  fix  whatever 
bauble  his  fancy  rests  upon  high  in  the  literary  heavens  ;  and 
no  true  poet  ever  exercised  the  peculiar  privilege  of  his  order 
more  sportively  than  Cowper.  He  has  fixed  Mr.  Bull's  tobacco- 
box  and  his  pipe  amid  the  signs,  and  elicited  many  a  smile  by 
settmg  the  honest  man  a-smoking  high  up  in  the  moon.  But 
even  to  the  moon  his  aflfection  followed  him,  as  may  be  seen 
from  the  characteristic  passage,  glittering,  as  is  Cowper's  wont, 
with  an  embroidery  of  playful  humor,  inwrought  into  a  sad- 
colored  groundwork  of  melancholy,  in  which  he  apostro- 
phizes the  worthy  minister  in  his  new  lodgment.  "  Mon 
aimahle  and  trts  chcr  ami,  —  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  chaises 
or  chariots  to  carry  you  where  my  affections  will  not  follow 
you.  If  I  heard  that  you  were  gone  to  finish  your  days  in  the 
moon,  I  should  not  love  you  the  less,  but  should  contemplate 
the  place  of  your  abode  as  often  as  it  appeared  in  the  heavens, 
and  say,  '  Farewell,  my  friend,  forever  !  Lost,  but  oot  for- 
gotten !  Live  happy  in  thy  lantern,  and  smoke  the  remainder 
of  thy  pipes  in  peace.  Tliou  art  rid  of  earth,  —  at  least,  of  &■  1 
its  cares,  —  and  so  far  can  I  rejoice  in  thy  removal ;  and  as  to 
the  cares  that  are  to  be  found  in  the  moon,  I  am  resolved  to 
suppose  them  lighter  than  those  below,  —  heavier  they  can 
nardly  be.'  " 

Cowper's    translations   of   the    better  devotional    poems    of 
Madame  Guion  were  made  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Bull,  who, 
Uiough  hir ■^elf  a  Calvinist,  was  yet  so  great  an  admirer  of 
28* 


330  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

the  mystic  Frerichwoman,  —  undoubtedly  sincere,  though  nc\ 
always  judicious,  in  her  devotional  aspirations,  —  that  he  tr?v. 
elled  on  one  occasion  twenty  miles  to  see  her  picture.  He 
urged  him,  too,  during  that  portion  of  partial  convalescence 
in  which  his  greater  poetical  works  were  produced,  again  to 
belake  himself  to  the  composition  of  original  hymns  ;  but  ii 
was  the  hour  of  the  power  of  darkness,  and  this  second  request 
served  but  to  distress  the  mind  of  the  suffering  poet.  He  had 
"  no  objection."  he  said,  "  to  giving  the  graces  of  the  foreignei 
an  English  dress,"  but  "insuperable  ones  to  affected  exhibi 
tions  of  what  he  did  not  feel."  —  "Ask  possibilities,"  he  adds, 
"  and  they  shall  be  performed  ;  but  ask  no  hymns  from  a  man 
suffering  from  despair,  as  I  do.  I  could  not  sing  the  Lord's 
song,  were  it  to  save  my  life,  banished  as  I  am,  not  to  a  strange 
land,  but  to  a  remoteness  from  His  presence,  in  comparison 
with  which  the  distance  from  east  to  west  is  no  distance,  —  is 
vicinity  and  cohesion."  Alas,  poor  Cowperl  —  sorely  smitten 
by  the  archers,  and  ever  carrying  about  with  him  the  rankling 
arrow  in  the  wound.  It  is  not  improbable  that  one  of  the 
peculiar  doctrines  of  the  Mystics,  though  it  could  scarce  have 
approved  itself  to  his  judgment,  may  have  yet  exercised  a 
soothing  influence  on  the  leading  delusion  of  his  unhappy 
malady;  and  that  he  may  have  been  all  the  more  an  admirer 
of  the  writings  of  Madame  Guion,  —  for  a  great  admirer  he 
was, — in  consequence  of  her  pointed  and  frequent  allusion 
to  it  It  was  held  by  the  class  of  Christians  to  which  she 
belonged,  —  among  the  rest,  by  Fenelon,  —  that  it  would  be 
altogether  proper,  and  not  impossible,  for  the  soul  to  acquiesce 
in  even  its  own  destruction,  were  it  to  be  God's  will  that  it 
should  be  destroyed.  We  find  the  idea  brought  strong.y  out  in 
one  of  the  poems  translated  by  Cowper ;  but  it  is  in  vain  now 
*o  inquire  respecting  the  mcod  of  strangely-mmgled  though' 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPlR.  331 

and  feel'ng,  —  of  thought  solid  and  sane,  and  of  acute  feeling, 
quickened  by  nadness,  — in  which  he  must  have  given  to  it  its 
first  embodime.it  in  Eng.ish  verse. 

"  Yet  He  leave3  me, — cruel  fate ! 
Leaves  me  in  my  lost  estate. 
Have  I  sinned  ?     0,  say  wherein  ; 
Tell  me,  and  forgive  my  sin  ! 
King  and  Lord,  whom  I  adore, 
Shall  I  see  thy  face  no  more  ? 
Be  not  angry  ;  I  resign 
Henceforth  all  my  will  to  thine : 
I  consent  that  Thou  depart. 
Though  thine  absence  breaks  my  heart. 
Go,  then,  and  forever  too  ; 
All  is  riglit  that  Thou  wilt  do." 

A  mile  beyond  Skirvington,  when  we  had  almost  re?igne(l 
ourselves  to  the  hardship  of  walking  over  all  the  ground  which 
we  had  bargained  for  being  carried  over,  we  were  overtaken  by 
the  omnibus  drawn  by  the  "  fresh  hoss."  It  stopped  for  a  few 
seconds  as  we  entered  Newport  Pagnell,  to  pick  up  a  passen- 
ger ;  and  a  tall,  robust,  hard-featured  female,  of  some  five- 
and-forty  or  so,  stepped  in.  Had  we  heai^d,  she  asked,  when 
adjusting  herself  with  no  little  bustle  in  a  corner  of  the  con- 
veyance, —  had  we  heard  how  the  great  fight  had  gone  ?  No ! 
—  my  two  companions  had  not  so  much  as  heard  that  a  great 
fight  there  had  been.  "0  dear!"  exclaimed  the  robust  female, 
"not  heard  that  Bendigo  challenged  Caimt  for  the  champion- 
ship!—  ay,  and  he  has  beaten  him  too.  Three  hundred  guineaj 
B-side!"  —  "Bad  work,  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  gentleman  in 
black.  —  "  Yes, "exclaimed  the  robust  female;  "bad  work,  foul 
work  ;  give  'em  fair  play,  and  Bendigo  is  no  match  for  Caunt. 
Hard  stiff  fellov\-,  though  !  But  there  he  is  !  "  We  looked  out 
ki  the  direction   indicated,  and  saw  the  champion  of  al'  Eng- 


3'f2  FTMST    tMPRESSIONS    OP 

,and  standing  «t  a  public'house  door,  with  a  large  white  patch 

over  one  eye,  and  a  deep  purple  streak  under  the  other.     He 

reminded  me  exceedingly  of  Bill  Sikes,  in  the  illustrations  by 

Cruikshank  of  Oliver  Twist.     For  two  mortal   hours  had  he 

stood  up,  under  the  broiling  sun  of  the  previous  day,  to  knock 

down,  and  be  knocked  down  in  turn,  all  in  a  lather  of  blood 

and  sweat,  and  surrounded  by  a  ring  of  the  greatest  scoundrels 

in  the  kingdom.     And  the  ninety-third  round  had  determined 

him  the  best  man  of  two,  and  the  champion  of  all  England.    I 

felt  convinced,  however,  like  the  old  king  in  the  ballad,  that 

England  holds 

"  Within  its  i-ealme, 
Five  hundred  as  good  as  hee." 

There  had  been  sad  doings  in  the  neighborhood,  —  not  a  little 
thieving  in  the  houses,  several  robberies  on  the  highway,  and 
much  pocket-picking  among  the  crowds  ;  in  short,  as  the  re- 
porter of  a  sporting  paper,  "The  Era,"  who  seemed  to  have 
got  bitten  somehow,  summed  up  his  notice  of  the  fight, — 
"had  the  crowds  brought  together  been  transported  en  masse 
to  Botany  Bay,  they  would  have  breathed  forth  such  a  moral 
pestilence  as  would  have  infected  the  atmosphere  of  the  place. 
Pugilism  has  been  described  as  one  of  the  manifestations  of 
English  character  and  manners.  I  suspect,  however,  that  in 
the  present  day  it  manifests  nothing  higher  than  the  unmiti- 
gated blackguardism  of  England's  lowest  and  most  disrepu- 
table rnen.  Regarding  the  English  ladies  who  take  an  interest 
in  it,  I  must  of  course  venture  nothing  untender ;  indeed,  1 
saw  but  a  single  specimen  of  the  class,  and  that  for  but  twenty 
ninutes  or  so,  for  the  robust  female   eft  us  at  the  first  stage. 

A  pugilist,  notwithstanding  his  pugilism,  may  be,  I  doubt 
not, a  brave  fellow;  the  bottom  he  displays  is,  in  most  instances, 
the  identical  quality  which,  in  the  desperate  tug  of  war,  so  dis- 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  33^ 

tll)2•nl^hes,  over  all  the  other  troops  of  Europe,  the  British 
soldier.  But  the  "science  of  defence"  can  have  in  itself  no 
tendency  either  to  strengthen  native  courage,  or  tc  supply  the 
want  of  it.  It  must  take  its  place  rather  among  those  artificial 
means  of  inspiring  confidence,  that,  like  the  bladders  of  the 
swimmer,  serve  but  to  induce  a  state  of  prostration  and  help- 
lessness when  they  unexpectedly  give  way ;  and  can  be  but  an 
indifferent  preparation  for  meeting  full  in  front  the  bayonet- 
point  that  breaks  in  upon  its  guards,  or  the  whizzing  bullet 
that  beats  them  down.  I  have  been  told  by  an  aged  relative, 
now  deceased,  who  saw  much  service,  that  in  the  first  great 
naval  battle  in  which  he  was  engaged,  and  the  first  great  storm 
he  experienced,  there  were  two  men  —  one  in  each  instance  — 
whose  cowardice  was  palpable  and  apparent  to  the  whole  crew, 
and  who  agreed  so  far  in  character,  that  each  was  the  champion 
pugilist  and  bully  of  his  vessel.  The  dastard  in  the  engage- 
ment—  that  of  Camperdown  —  was  detected  coiling  up  his; 
craven  bulk  in  a  place  of  concealment,  out  of  reach  of  the 
shot:  the  dastard  in  the  storm  was  rendered,  by  the  extreme- 
ness of  his  terror,  unfit  for  duty.  The  vessel  in  which  my 
relative  sailed  at  the  time  —  the  same  relative  who  afterwards 
picked  up  the  curious  shell  amid  the  whistling  of  the  bullets 
in  Egypt  —  was  one  of  those  old-fashioned,  iron-fastened  ships 
of  the  line  that,  previous  to  the  breaking  out  of  the  first  revo- 
lutionary war,  had  been  lying  in  dock  for  years,  and  that,  care- 
fully kept,  so  far  at  least  as  externals  were  concerned,  looked 
extremely  well  when  first  sent  to  sea,  but  proved  miserable 
weather-boats  amid  the  straining  of  a  gale,  when  their  stiff 
rusty  bolting  began  to  slacken  and  work  out.  The  gale,  in 
this  especial  instance,  proved  a  very  tremendous  one  ;  and  the 
old  Magnificent  went  scudding  before  it,  far  into  the  Northern 
Ocean,  under  bare  poles.     She  began  to  open  m  the  joints  and 


334  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

seams  like  a  liece  of  basket-work ,  and  though  the  p  imps  wete 
plied  incessa.itly  by  half-hour  relays,  the  water  rose  fast  within 
the  hold,  and  she  threatened  to  settle  down.  My  relative  wa? 
stationed  in  the  well-room  during  one  of  the  night-watches,  just 
as  the  tempest  had  reached  its  crisis,  to  take  note  of  the  state 
of  the  leakage  ;  and  a  man  came  round  every  quarter  of  an 
hour  to  receive  his  report.  The  water,  dimly  visible  by  the 
lantern  of  horn,  rose  fast  along  the  gauge,  covering,  inch  after 
inch,  four  feet  and  a  half,  —  four  feet  nine, —  five  feet,  —  fivr 
feet  three,  —  five  feet  and  a  half:  the  customary  quarter  of  an 
hour  had  long  elapsed,  yet  no  one  appeared  to  report ;  and  the 
solitary  watcher,  wondering  at  the  delay,  raised  the  little  hatch 
directly  above  head,  and  stepped  out  upon  the  orlop,  to  repre- 
sent the  state  of  matters  below.  Directly  over  the  opening,  a 
picture  of  cold,  yellow  terror,  petrifying  into  stone,  stood  the 
cowed  bruiser,  with  a  lantern  dangling  idly  from  his  finger 
points.  "What  make  you  here?"  asked  my  relative. — "Come 
to  report,"  —  "Report!  is  that  reporting?"  —  "Ol!  —  how 
many  feet  water?"  —  "Five  and  a  half."  —  "Five  feet  and 
a  half!"  exclaimed  the  unnerved  bully,  striking  his  hands 
together,  and  letting  his  lantern  fall  into  the  open  hatch, — 
"Five  feet  and  a  half!  Gracious  heaven!  it's  all  over  with 
us  ! "  Nothing,  I  have  oftener  than  once  heard  my  relative 
remark,  so  strongly  impressed  him,  during  the  terrors  of  the 
gale,  as  the  dread-impressed  features  ;  nd  fear-modulated  tor.ea 
of  that  uj.happy  man. 


ENGLAND    ANT)   ITS    PFOPf.R  3ri5 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

Cowper  and  the  Geologists. — Geology  in  the  Poet's  Days  .r  E  State  51 
great  Immaturity.  —  Case  different  aow.  —  Folly  of  conmittiug  the 
Bible  to  a  False  Science.  —  Galileo.  —  Geologists  at  one  in  all  t'aeir 
more  important  Deductions  ;  vast  Antiquity  of  the  Earth  one  of  tl  ese 
—  State  of  the  Question.  —  Illustration.  —  Presumed  Thickness  of  the 
Fossiliferous  Strata.  —  Peculiar  Order  of  their  Organic  Coi.tents  ;  of 
their  Fossil  Fish  in  particular,  as  ascertained  by  Agassiz.  —  The  Geo- 
logic Races  of  Animals  entirely  different  from  those  which  sheltered 
with  Noah  in  the  Ark. — Alleged  Discrepancy  between  Geologic  Fact 
and  the  Mosaic  Record  not  real.  —  Inference  based  on  the  opening 
Verses  of  the  Book  of  Genesis. — Parallel  Passage  adduced  to  prove 
the  Inference  unsound.  —  The  Supposition  that  Fossils  may  have  been 
created  such  examined:  unworthy  of  the  Divine  Wisdom;  contrary  to 
the  Principles  which  regulate  Human  Relief;  subversive  of  the  grand 
Argument  founded  on  Design.  —  The  profounder  Theologians  of  the  Day 
not  Anti-Geologists.  —Geologic  Fact  in  reality  of  a  kind  fitted  to  per- 
form important  Work  in  the  two  Theologies,  Natural  and  Revealed  ; 
subversive  of  the  "  Infinite-Series  "  Argument  of  the  Atheist ;  subver- 
sive, too,  of  the  Objection  drawn  by  Infidelity  from  an  Astronomical 
Analogy.  — Counter-objection.  — Illustration. 

It  may  have  been  merely  the  effect  of  an  engrossing  study 
long  prosecuted,  but  so  it  was,  that  of  all  I  had  witi  essed  amid 
the  .scenes  rendered  classic  by  the  muse  of  Cowper,  nothing 
more  permanently  impressed  me  than  a  few  broken  fo.ssil^  of 
the  Oolite  which  I  had  picked  up  immediately  opposite  the 
poet's  windows.  There  had  they  lain,  as  carelessly  indifferent 
to  the  strictures  in  "  The  Task,"  as  the  sun  in  the  central 
heavens,  two  centuries  before,  to  the  denunciations  '.i  the  In- 
quisition. Geology,  however,  in  the  days  of  Cowper  had  not 
attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  science.  It  lacked  solid  footing  as 
It  journeyed  amid   the   wastes  of  Chaos  ;  i.nd  now  tipped,  aa 


^■?^fi  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

witli  its  toe-points,  a  "  crude  consistence "  of  ill-u-nderstooa 
facts,  and  now  rose  aloft  into  an  atmosphere  of  obscure  conjec- 
ture, on  a  "  tumultuous  cloud  "  of  ill-digested  theory.  In  a 
science  in  this  unformed,  rudimental  stage,  whether  it  dea'i 
with  the  stars  of  htaven  or  the  strata  of  the  earth,  the  old 
anarch  of  Infidelity  is  sure  always  to  ellect  a  transitory  lodg- 
ment; and  beside  him  stand  his  auxiliaries, 

"  Rumor,  and  Chance, 
And  Tumult,  and  Confusion,  all  embroiled, 
And  Discord  with  a  thousand  various  mouths." 

And  so  it  is  in  no  degree  derogatory  to  the  excellent  sense  of 
Cowper,  that  he  should  have  striven  to  bring  Revelation  in 
direct  antithetical  collision  with  the  inferences  of  the  geologists. 
There  exists,  however,  no  such  apology  for  the  Dean  Cock- 
burns  and  London  "  Records  "  of  the  present  day.  Geology, 
though  still  a  youthful  science,  is  no  longer  an  immature  one  : 
it  has  got  firm  footing  on  a  continent  of  fact;  and  the  man  who 
labors  to  set  the  doctrines  of  Revelation  in  array  against  its 
legitimate  deductions,  is  employed,  whatever  may  be  his  own 
estimate  of  his  vocation,  not  on  the  side  of  religious  truth,  but 
of  scepticism  and  infidelity.  His  actual  work,  however  excel- 
lent his  proposed  object,  is  identically  that  of  all  the  shrewder 
infidels,  —  the  Humes,  Volneys,  Voltaires,  and  Bolingbrokes,  — 
who  have  compassed  sea  and  land,  and  pressed  every  element 
into  their  service,  in  attempting  to  show  that  the  facts  and  doc- 
trines of  the  Bible  traverse  those  groat  fixed  laws  which  regu- 
late human  belief.  No  scientific  question  was  ever  yet  settled 
dogmatically,  or  ever  will.  If  the  question  be  one  in  the  sci- 
ence of  numbers,  it  must  be  settled  arithmetically;  if  in  the  sci- 
ence of  geometry,  it  must  be  settled  mathematically;  if  in  the 
science  of  chemistry,  it  must  De  settled  experimentally.      The 


I 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEC  PLE.  337 

Church  of  Kome  strove  hard,  in  the  days 'of  Galilee,  .0  settle 
an  astrononiical  question  theologically;  and  did  its  utmost  to 
commit  the  Bible  to  the  belief  that  the  earth  occupies  a  central 
position  in  the  system,  and  that  the  sun  performs  a  daily  revo- 
lution around  it:  but  the  astronomical  question,  maugre  the 
Inquisition,  refused  to  be  settled  other  than  astronomically. 
And  all  now  believe  that  the  central  position  is  occupied,  not 
by  the  earth,  but  by  the  sun  ;  and  that  it  is  the  lesser  body  that 
moves  round  the  larger,  —  not  the  larger  that  moves  round  the 
lesser.  What  would  have  been  the  result,  had  Rome,  backed 
by  the  Franciscan,  succeeded  in  pledging  the  verity  of  Scrip- 
ture to  a  false  astronomy?  The  astronomical  facts  of  the  case 
would  have,  of  course,  remained  unchanged.  Thi.  severe  truth 
of  geometry  would  have  lent  its  demonstrative  aid  to  establish 
their  real  character.  All  the  higher  minds  would  have  become 
convinced  for  themselves,  and  the  great  bulk  of  the  lower,  at 
second  hand,  that  the  Scripture  pledge  had  been  given,  not  to 
scientific  truth,  but  to  scientific  error;  and  the  Bible,  to  the 
extent  to  which  it  stood  committed,  would  be  justly  regarded  as 
occupying  no  higher  a  level  than  the  Shaster  or  Koran.  Infi- 
delity never  yet  succeeded  in  placing  Revelation  in  a  position 
so  essentially  false  as  that  in  which  it  was  placed  by  Rome,  to 
the  extent  of  Rome's  ability,  in  the  case  of  Galileo. 

Now,  ultimately  at  least,  as  men  have  yielded  to  astronomy 
the  right  of  decision  in  all  astronomical  questions,  must  they 
resign  to  geology  the  settlement  of  all  geological  ones.  I  do 
not  merely  speak  of  what  ought,  but  of  what  assuredly  must 
and  will  be.  The  successive  geologic  systems  and  formations, 
with  all  their  organic  contents,  are  as  real  existences  as  the  sun 
itself;  and  it  is  quite  as  possible  to  demonstrate  their  true  place 
and  position,  relative  and  absolute.  And  sa  long  as  certain 
fixed  laws  control  and  regulate  human  belief,  certain  inevitable 
29 


338  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

deductions  must  and  will  continue  to  be  based  on  the  facti 
which  these  systems  and   formations   furnish.     Geologists  of 
the  higher  order  differ  among  themselves,  on  certain  minutise 
of  their  science,  to  nearly  as  great  an  extent  as  the  Episcopa- 
lian differs  in  matters  ecclesiastical  from  the  Presbyterian,  or 
the  Baptist  or  Independent  from  both.     But  their  differences 
militate  no  more  against  the  great  conclusions  in  which  they 
all  agree,  than   the  theological   differences  of  the   Protestant 
churches   against   the    credibility   of  those   leading  truths  ol 
Christianity  on  which  all  tnie  churches  are  united.     And  one 
of  these  great  conclusions  respects  the  incalculably  vast  anti- 
quity of  the  earth  on  which  we  dwell.     It  seems  scarce  possible 
to  over-estimate  the  force  and  weight  of  the  evidence  already 
expiscated  on  this  point;  and  almost  every  new  discovery  adds 
to   its  cogency  and  amount.     That  sectional  thickness  of  the 
earth's  crust  in   which,   mile   beneath   mile,   the  sedimentary 
strata  are  divided  into  many-colored   and  variously-composed 
systems  and  formations,  and  which  abounds  from  top  to  bottom 
in  organic  remains,  forms  but  the  mere  pages  of  the  register. 
And  it  is  rather  the  nature  and  order  of  the  entries  with  which 
these  pages  are  crowded,  than  the  amazing  greatness  of  their 
number,  or  the  enormous  extent  of  the  space  which  they  oc- 
cupy (rather  more  than   five  miles), —  though   both  have,  of 
course,  their  weight,  —  that  compel  belief  in  the  remoteness  of 
he  period  to  which  the  record  extends.     Let  me  attempt  eluci- 
lating  the  point  by  a  simple  illustration. 
In  a  well-kept  English  register,  continuous  from  a  disiant 
■itiquity  to  the  present  time,  there  are  many  marks  demonstra- 
]ve  of  the  remoteness  of  the  era  to  which  it  reaches,  besides 
he  bulk  and  number  of  the  volumes  which  compose  it,  and  the 
.lultitude  of  the  entries  which   they  contain.     In   an   earlier 
olume  we  find  the  ancient   Saxon   character  united  to  thai 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  331) 

somewhat  meagre  yet  not  inexpressive  language  in  which 
Alfred  wrote  and  conversed.  In  a  succeeding  volume,  th%. 
Saxon,  both  in  word  and  letter,  gives  place  to  Norman  French. 
The  Norman  French  yields,  in  turn,  in  a  yet  succeeding  one, 
to  a  massive  black-letter  character,  and  an  antique  combination 
of  both  tongues,  which  we  term  the  genuine  old  English.  And 
.hen,  in  after  volumes,  the  old  English  gradually  modernizes 
and  improves,  till  we  recognize  it  as  no  longer  old  :  we  see,  too, 
the  heavy  black-letter  succeeded  by  the  lighter  Italian  hand,  at 
first  doggedly  stiff  and  upright,  but  anon  bent  elegantly  forward 
along  the  line.  And  in  these  various  successions  of  character 
and  language  we  recognize  the  marks  of  a  genuine  antiquity. 
Nor,  in  passing  from  these,  —  the  mere  externals  of  the  regis- 
ter,—  to  the  register  itself,  are  the  evidences  less  conclusive. 
In  reading  upwards,  we  find  the  existing  families  of  the 
district  preceded  by  families  now  extinct,  and  these,  in  turn, 
by  families  which  had  become  extinct  at  earlier  and  still 
earlier  periods.  Names  disappear,  —  titles  alter,  —  the  bound- 
aries of  lands  vary  as  the  proprietors  change,  —  smaller  es- 
tates are  now  absorbed  by  larger,  and  now  larger  divide  into 
smaller.  There  are  traces  not  a  few  of  customs  lonsf  abrocaied 
and  manners  become  obsolete ;  and  we  see  paroxysms  of  local 
revolution  indicated  by  a  marked  grouping  of  events  of  corre- 
sponding character,  that  assume  peculiar  force  and  significancy 
when  we  collate  the  record  with  the  general  history  of  the 
kingdom.  Could  it  be  possible,  I  ask,  to  believe,  regarding 
such  a  many-volumed  register,  —  with  all  its  various  styles 
characters,  and  languages,  —  its  histories  of  the  rise  and  fall 
of  families,  and  its  records  of  conquests,  settlements,  and  revo- 
lutions, —  that  it  had  been  all  hastily  written  at  a  heat  on  a 
Saturday  night,  some  three  or  four  weeks  ago,  without  any 
mtention  to  deieive  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  —  nay,  with^jul 


340  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ai;y  intention  even  of  making  a  register  at  all  ?  The  mere 
bulk  and  nut  iber  of  the  volumes  would  militate  sadly  against 
any  such  supposition ;  but  the  peculiar  character  and  order  of 
their  contents  would  militate  against  it  more  powerfully  still. 

Now,  the  geologic  register  far  excels  any  human  record,  in 
the  number  and  significancy  of  the  marks  of  a  strictly  analo- 
gous cast  which  demonstrate  its  vast  antiquity.  As  we  ascend 
higher,  and  yet  higher,  the  characters  of  the  document  strangely 
alter.  In  the  Tertiary  ages  we  find  an  evident  approximation 
to  the  existing  style.  An  entire  change  takes  place  as  we 
enter  the  Secondary  period.  A  change  equally  marked  char- 
acterizes the  Palaeozoic  eras.  Up  till  the  commencement  of 
the  Cretaceous  system,  two  great  orders  of  fish,  —  the  Ctenoid 
and  Cycloid,  —  fish  furnished  with  horny  scales  and  bony  skel- 
etons, —  comprise,  as  they  now  do,  the  great  bulk  of  the  finny 
inhabitants  of  the  waters.  But  immediately  beyond  the  Creta- 
ceous group  these  two  orders  wholly  disappear,  and  the  Ga- 
noid and  Placoid  orders  —  fish  that  wear  an  armature  of  bone 
outside,  and  whose  skeletons  are  chiefly  cartilaginous — take 
their  places.  Up  till  the  period  of  the  Magnesian  Limestone, 
the  Jiomocercal  or  two-lobed  type  of  fish-tail  greatly  preponder- 
ates, as  at  the  present  time ;  but  in  all  the  older  formations,  — 
those  of  the  immensely  extended  Palaeozoic  period, —  not  a 
single  tail,^of  this  comparatively  modern  type  is  to  be  found, 
and  the  heterocercal  or  one-sided  tail  obtains  exclusively. 
Down  till  the  deposition  of  the  Chalk  has  taken  place,  all  the 
true  woods  are  coniferas  of  the  Pine  or  Araucarian  families. 
After  the  Chalk  has  been  deposited,  hard-wood  trees,  of  the 
dicotyledonous  order,  are  largely  introduced.  Down  till  the 
times  of  the  Magnesian  Limestone,  plants  of  an  inferior  order 
■ — ferns,  stigmaria,  club-mosses,  and  calamites  —  attain  to  a 
size  so  gigartic  that  they  rival  the  true  denizens  of  the  forest 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLK.  341 

ivhereas  with  the  dawn  of  the  Secondary  period  »e  find  the 
immaturities  of  the  vegetable  kingdom  reduced  to  a  bulk  and 
size  that  consort  better  with  the  palpable  inferiority  of  their 
rank  in  creation.  And  not  only  are  the  styles  and  characteis 
of  the  several  periods  of  the  geologic  register  thus  various,  but, 
as  in  the  English  register  of  my  illustration,  the  record  of  the 
rise  and  fall  of  septs  and  families  is  singularly  distinct.  The 
dynasties  of  the  crustacean,  the  fish,  the  reptile,  and  the  mam 
miferous  quadruped,  succeed  each  other  in  an  order  as  definite 
as  the  four  great  empires  in  the  "  Ancient  History  "  of  Rollin. 
Nor  are  the  periods  when  single  families  arose  and  sank  less 
carefully  noted.  The  trilobite  family  came  into  existence  with 
the  first  beginnings  of  the  Palaeozoic  division,  and  ceased  at  its 
close.  The  belemnite  family  began  and  became  extinct  with 
the  Secondary  formations.  The  ammonite  and  gryphite,  in  all 
their  many  species,  did  not  outlive  the  deposition  of  the  Chalk. 
There  is  one  definite  period,  —  the  close  of  the  Palaeozoic  era, 
—  at  which  the  Brachiopoda,  singularly  numerous  ihroiigiiout 
many  previous  formations,  and  consisting  of  many  great  fami 
lies,  suddenly,  with  the  exception  of  a  single  genus,  drop  olf 
and  disappear.  There  is  another  definite  period, —  the  close 
of  the  Secondary  era,  —  at  which  the  Cephalopoda,  with  nearly 
as  few  exceptions,  disappear  as  suddenly.  At  this  latter  period, 
too,  the  Enaliosaurians,  so  long  the  monster  tyrants  of  the 
ocean,  cease  forever,  and  the  Cetacea  take  their  places:  thf 
be-paddled  reptiles  go  ofT  the  stage,  and  the  be-paddled  mam 
malia  come  on.  But  perhaps  the  most  striking  series  of  facts 
of  this  nature  in  the  whole  range  of  geological  literature,  is 
that  embodied  in  the  table  afifixed-by  Agassiz  to  his  great  work 
on  fossil  fish. 

This    singularly    interesting   document  —  which,    like    the 
•innual  balance-sheet  of  a  great  mercantile  house  or  banking 
529* 


342  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS     OK 

company,  that  comprises  m  its  comparatively  few  lines  of 
figures  the  result  of  every  arithmetical  calculation  made  by  thp 
firm  during  the  twelvemonth  —  condenses,  in  a  single  page, 
the  results  of  the  naturalist's  observations  in  his  own  peculiar 
department  for  many  years.  It  marks  at  what  periods  the 
great  families  of  the  extinct  fishes  began,  and  when  the)' 
ceased,  and  at  what  periods  those  great  families  arose  which 
continue  to  exist  in  the  present  state  of  things.  The  facts  are 
exceedingly  curious.  Some  of  the  families  are,  we  find,  of 
comparatively  brief  standing,  and  occupy  but  small  space  in 
the  record,  —  others  sweep  across  well-nigh  the  whole  geolog- 
ical scale.  Some  come  into  existence  with  the  beginning  of 
a  s)  .tem,  and  cease  at  its  close,  —  others  continue  to  exist 
throughout  almost  all  the  systems  together.  The  salmon  and 
herring  families,  though  the  species  were  diflferent,  lived  in  the 
ages  of  the  Chalk,  and  ever  since,  throughout  the  periods  of 
the  Tertiary;  while  the  cod  and  haddock  family  pertains,  on 
♦,he  contrary,  to  but  the  existing  scene  of  things.  The  Cepha- 
faspides — that  family  to  which  the  Pterichthys  and  Coccosteus 
oelong — were  restricted  to  a  single  system,  the  Old  Red 
Sandstone;  nor  had  its  contemporaries  the  Dipterians  —  that 
family  to  which  the  Osteolepis  and  Diplopterus  belong — a 
longer  term;  whereas  the  Ccdacanthes,  —  the  family  of  the 
Holoptychius,  Glyptolepis,  and  Asterolepis,  —  while  it  began  as 
early,  passed  down  to  the  times  of  the  Chalk,  —  and  the  Ces- 
tracions  —  even  a  more  ancient  family  still  —  continue  to  have 
their  living  representatives.  It  is  held  by  the  Dean  of  York 
that  the  fact  of  the  Noachian  Deluge  may  be  made  satisfacto- 
rily to  account  for  all  the  geologic  phenomena.  Alas!  No 
cataclysm,  however  great  or  general,  could  have  produced 
diversities  of  style,  each  restricted  to  a  determinate  period,  and 
trh'ch  bec^mp  more  broadly  apparent   the  more  carefully  we 


ENGLAIS  0    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  343 

collate  the  geologic  register  as  it  exists  in  one  country  with 
the  same  register  as  it  exists  in  another.  No  cataclysm  could 
have  arranged  an  infinitude  of  entries  in  exact  chronological 
order,  or  assigned  to  the  tribes  and  families  which  it  destroyed 
and  mterred  distinct  consecutive  periods  and  formations.  It  is 
but  common  sense  to  hold  that  the  Deluge  could  not  have  pro- 
duced an  ancient  church-yard,  —  such  as  the  .Gray friars  of 
Edinburgh,  —  with  its  series  of  tombstones  in  all  their  suc- 
•;essive  styles,  —  Gothic,  Elizabethan,  Roman,  and  Grecian, — 
:omplete  for  many  centuries.  It  could  not  have  been  the 
author  of  the  old  English  register  of  ray  illustration.  Geolo- 
gists affirm  regarding  the  Flood,  merely  to  the  effect  that  it 
could  not  have  written  Hume's  History  of  England,  nor  even 
composed  and  set  into  type  Mr.  Burke's  British  Peerage. 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  difficulties  with  which  the  anti-geolo- 
gist has  to  contend.  That  leading  fact  of  the  Deluge,  —  the 
ark,  —  taken  in  connection  with  the  leading  geologic  fact  thai 
the  organic  remains  of  the  various  systems,  from  the  Lower 
Silurian  to  the  Chalk  inclusive,  are  the  remains  of  extinct  races 
and  tribes,  forms  a  difficulty  of  another  kind.  The  fact  of  the 
ark  satisfactorily  shows  that  man  in  his  present  state  has  been 
contemporary  with  but  one  creation.  The  preservation  by 
sevens  and  by  pairs  of  the  identical  races  amid  which  he  first 
started  into  existence  superseded  the  necessity  of  a  creation 
after  the  Flood  ;  and  so  it  is  the  same  tribes  of  animals,  wild 
and  domestic,  which  share  with  him  in  his  p. ace  of  habitation 
now,  that  surrounded  him  in  Paradise.  But  the  Palaeozoic, 
Secondary,  and  older  Tertiary  animals,  are  of  races  and  tribes 
altogether  diverse.  We  find  among  them  not  even  a  single 
species  which  sheltered  in  the  ark.  The  races  contemporary 
with  man  were  preserved  to  bear  him  company  in  his  pilgriin- 
dge, and   o  minister  to  his  necessities;  but  those  strange  races 


344  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

buried,  in  many  instances,  whole  miles  beneath  the  surface,  an."! 
never  seen  save  imbedded  in  rock  and  transformed  into  stone, 
could 'not  have  been  his  contemporaries.  They  belong,  as  their 
place  and  appearance  demonstrate,  to  periods  long  anterior. 
Nor  can  it  be  rationally  held,  that  of  those  anterior  periods 
revelation  should  have  given  us  any  history.  They  lie  palpa- 
bly beyond  the  scope  of  the  sacred  record.  On  w^hat  principle, 
seeing  it  is  silent  on  the  contemporary  creations  of  Mars,  Ve- 
*  nus,  and  Jupiter,  ought  it  to  have  spoken  on  the  consecutive 
creations  of  the  Silurian,  Carboniferous,  and  Oolitic  periods? 
Why  should  it  promulgate  the  truths  of  Geology,  seeing  that 
those  of  Astronomy  it  has  withheld  ?  Man  everywhere  has 
entertained  the  expectation  of  a  book,  Heaven-inspired,  that 
should  teach  him  what  God  is,  and  what  God  demands  of  him. 
The  sacred  books  of  all  the  false  religions,  from  those  of 
Zoroaster  and  the  Brahmins  to  those  of  Mahomet  and  the 
Mormons,  are  just  so  many  evidences  that  the  expectation 
exists.  And  the  Bible  is  its  fulfilment.  But  man  has  enter- 
tained no  such  expectation  of  a  revelation  from  God  of  the 
truths  of  science  ;  nor  is  it  according  to  the  ecoiaomy  of  Provi- 
dence,—  the  economy  manifested  in  the  slow  and  gradual 
development  of  the  species,  —  that  any  such  expectation  should 
be  realized.  The  "Principia"  of  Newton  is  an  uninspired 
volume  ;  and  only  the  natural  faculties  were  engaged  in  the 
discovery  of  James  Watt. 

But  it  is  not  urged,  it  may  be  said,  that  the  Scriptures  reveal 
geologic  truth  as  such ;  it  is  merely  urged  that  geologists  must 
not  traverse  Scripture  statements  respecting  the  age  of  the 
earth,  as  revealed  for  purely  religious  purposes  by  God  to 
Moses.  But  did  God  reveal  the  earth's  age  to  Moses  ?■  Not 
directly,  surely,  or  else  men  equally  sound  in  the  faith  would 
ao*  be  found  lengthening  or  shortening  the  brief  period  which 


ENGLAND  \ND  ITS  PEOPLE.  345 

ntcrvenes  between  Adan  and  Abraham,  jast  as  tiey  adopt 
Me  Hebrew  or  Septuajjint  chronology,  by  nearly  a  thousana 
y:aB5.  Here,  however,  it  may  be  ^-aid  that  we  are  in  doubt 
regarding  the  real  chronology,  not  because  God  has  not  indi- 
rectly revealed  it,  but  because  man,  in  either  the  Hebrew  or 
Samaritan  record,  has  vitiated  the  revelation.  Most  true  : 
still,  however,  the  doubt  is  doubt.  But  did  God  reveal  the 
earth's  age,  either  directly  or  otherwise  ?  Let  us  examine  the 
narrative.  "In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heaven  and 
the  earth.  And  the  earth  was  without  form  and  void  ;  and 
darkness  was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep.  And  the  Spirit  of 
God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  And  God  said.  Let 
there  be  light,  and  there  was  light."  Now,  let  it  be  admitted, 
for  the  argument's  sake,  that  the  earth  existed  in  the  dark  and 
void  state  described  here  only  six  days,  of  twenty-four  hours 
each,  before  the  creation  of  man  ;  and  that  the  going  forth  of 
the  Spirit  and  the  breaking  out  of  the  light,  on  this  occasion, 
were  events  immediately  introductory  to  the  creation  to  which 
we  ourselves  belong.  And  what  then  ?  It  is  evident,  from  the 
continuity  of  the  narrative  in  the  passage,  say  the  anti-geolo- 
gists, that  there  could  have  been  no  creations  on  this  earth 
prior  to  the  present  one.  Nay,  not  so:  for  aught  that  appears 
in  the  narrative,  there  might  have  been  many.  Between  \he 
creation  of  the  matter  of  which  the  earth  is  composed,  as  enun- 
ciated in  the  first  verse,  and  the  earth's  void  and  chaotic  state, 
as  described  in  the  second,  a  thousand  creations  might  have 
intervened.  As  may  be  demonstrated  from  even  the  writings 
of  Moses  himself,  the  continuity  of  a  narrative  furnishes  no 
evidence  whatever  tliat  the  facts  which  it  records  \vere  con- 
tinuous. 

Take,  for   instance,  the  following  passage.      "Then;  woni 
out  a  map  of  tli3  hou?;e  of  Levi,  and  took  to  wile  a  daughtei 


346  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

of  Levi.  .\nd  the  woman  conceived  and  bare  a  son ;  ant 
V'hen  she  saw  him  that  he  was  a  goodly  child,  she  hid  him 
th.-ee  mon  hs.  And  when  she  could  not  longer  hide  him,  she 
tootc  for  hi  n  an  ark  of  bulrushes,  and  daubed  it  with  slime  and 
with  pitch,  and  put  the  child  therein  ;  and  she  laid  it  in  the 
flags  by  the  river's  brink."*  The  narrative  here  is  quite  as 
continuous  as  in  the  first  three  verses  of  Genesis.  In  the  order 
of  the  relation,  the  marriage  of  the  parents  is  as  directly  fol- 
lowed in  the  one  case  by  the  birth  of  a  son,  as  the  creation  of 
matter  is  followed  in  the  other  by  the  first  beginnings  of  the 
existing  state  of  things.  The  reader  has  as  slight  grounds  to 
infer,  in  the  one  case,  that  betw^een  the  marriage  of  the  parents 
and  the  birth  of  the  child  the  births  of  several  other  children 
of  the  family  had  taken  place,  as  to  infer,  in  the  other,  that 
between  the  creation  of  matter  and  the  subsisting  creation 
there  had  taken  place  several  other  creations.  And  if  the  con- 
tinuity of  the  narrative  would  not  justify  the  inference  in  the 
one  case,  just  as  little  can  it  justify  it  in  the  other.  We  know, 
.however,  from  succeeding  portions  of  Scripture,  that  the  father 
and  mother  of  this  child  had  several  other  children  born  to 
them  in  the  period  that  intervened  between  their  marriage  and 
his  birth.  They  had  a  son  named  Aaron,  who  had  been  born 
at  least  two  years  previous  ;  and  a  daughter,  Miriam,  who  was 
old  enough  at  the  time  to  keep  sedulous  watch  over  the  little 
ark  of  bulrushes,  and  to  suggest  to  Pharaoh's  daughter  that  it 
might  be  well  for  her  to  go  and  call  one  of  the  Hebrew  women 

*T  owe  this  passage,  in  its  bearing  on  the  opening  narrative  in  Genesis, 
to  the  Rev.  Alexander  Stewart,  of  Cromarty,  —  for  fifteen  years  my  parish 
minister,  and  one  of  decidedly  the  most  original-minded  men  and  nuet 
accomplished  theologians  his  country  has  ever  produced.  And  he,  I  may 
idd,  like  all  careful  students  of  Scriptui-e  of  the  higher  calibre,  can  see 
no  irrecon  jilable  1  fference  bstween  Bible  truth  and  the  great  facts  of 
the  geologist. 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  347 

to  be  nurse  to  the  child.  It  was  essential,  in  the  course  of 
Scripture  narrativ^e,  that  we  should  be  introduced  to  personages 
so  famous  as  Aaron  and  Miriam,  and  who  were  destined  to 
enact  parts  so  important  in  the  history  of  the  Church  ;  ntid  so 
we  have  been  introduced  to  them.  And  had  it  been  as  neces- 
sary for  the  pu  'poses  of  revelation  that  reference  should  have 
been  made  to  tne  intervening-  creations  in  the  one  case,  as  to 
the  intervening  births  in  the  other,  we  would  doubtless  have 
hea."d  of  them  too.  But,  as  has  been  already  said,  it  was  not'' 
so  necessary ;  it  was  not  necessary  at  all.  The  ferns  and 
lepiaodendra  of  the  Coal  Measures  are  as  little  connected  with 
the  truths  which  influence  our  spiritual  state,  as  the  vegetable 
productions  of  Mercury  or  of  Pallas  ;  the  birds  and  reptiles  of 
the  Oolite,  as  the  unknown  animals  that  inhabit  the  plains  or 
disport  in  the  rivers  of  Saturn  or  Uranus.  And  so  revelation 
is  as  silent  on  the  geological  phenomena  as  on  the  contempo- 
rary creations,  —  on  the  periods  and  order  of  systems  and 
formations,  as  on  the  relative  positions  of  the  earth  and  sun,  or 
the  places  and  magnitudes  of  the  planets. 

But  organic  remains  may,  it  is  urged,  have  been  created 
such  ;  and  the  special  miracle  through  which  the  gourd  of 
Jonah,  though  it  must  have  seemed  months  old,  sprung  up  in  a 
single  night,  and  the  general  miracle  through  which  the  trees 
of  Paradise  must  have  appeared,  even  on  the  first  evening  of 
their  creation,  half  a  century  old,  have  been  adduced  to  show 
that  the  globe,  notwithstanding  its  marks  of  extreme  antifjUity., 
may  have  been  produced  with  all  tliese  marks  stamped  upon  it, 
as  if  in  the  mint.  "The  very  day  when  the  ocean  dashed  its 
first  waves  on  the  shore,"  says  Chateaubriand,  "it  bathed,  let 
us  not  doubt,  rocks  already  worn  by  the  breakers,  and  beaches 
■strewn  with  the  wrecks  of  shells."  —  "  For  aught  that  appears 
la  the  bowels    f  the  earth,"  said  the  "  Kecor  J  "  newspaper,  some 


,-148  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

two  year-:  ago,  in  adopting  this  peculiar  view,  as  expressed  by 
a  worthy  Presbyterian  minister,  "  the  world  might  have  been 
ceiled  into  existence  yesterday."  Let  us  just  try  whether,  a'3 
creatures  to  whom  God  has  given  reason,  and  who  cannot 
acquire  facts  without  drawing  inferences,  we  can  believe  the 
assertion;  and  ascertain  how  much  this  curious  principle  of 
explaining  geologic  fact  actually  inv^olves. 

"  The  earth,  for  anything  that  appears  to  the  contrary,  may 
have  been  made  yesterday  !."  We  stand  in  the  middle  of  an 
ancient  burying-ground  in  a  northern  district.  The  monu- 
ments of  the  dead,  lichened  and  gray,  rise  thick  around  us  ; 
and  there  are  fragments  of  mouldering  bones  lying  scattered 
amid  the  loose  dust  that  rests  under  them,  in  dark  recesses 
impervious  to  the  rain  and  the  sunshine.  We  dig  into  the  soil 
below :  here  is  a  human  skull,  and  there  numerous  other  well- 
known  bones  of  the  human  skeleton,  —  vertebrse,  ribs,  arm  and 
leg  bones,  with  the  bones  of  the  breast  and  pelvis.  Still,  as  we 
dig,  the  bony  mass  accumulates  ;  — we  disinter  portions,  not  of 
one,  but  of  many  skeletons,  some  comparatively  fresh,  some  in 
a  state  of  great  decay ;  and  with  the  bones  there  mingle  frag- 
ments of  cofRns,  with  the  wasted  tinsel-mounting  in  some 
instances  still  attached,  and  the  rusted  nails  still  sticking  in 
the  joints.  We  continue  to  dig,  and,  at  a  depth  tc  -'/hich  the 
sexton  almost  never  penetrates,  find  a  stratum  of  pure  sea- 
sand,  and  then  a  stratum  of  the  sea-shells  common  on  the 
neighboring  coast,  —  in  especial,  oyster,  muscle,  and  cockle 
shells.  It  may  be  mentioned,  in  the  passing,  that  the  church- 
yard to  which  I  refer,  though  at  some  little  distance  from  the 
sea,  is  situated  on  one  of  the  raised  beaches  of  the  north  of 
Scotland  ;  and  hence  the  shells.  We  dig  a  little  further,  and 
reach  a  thick  bed  of  sandstone,  which  we  penetrate,  and  beneatli 
which  we  find  a  bed  of  impure  lime,  richly  charged  v\-ith  the 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  349 

remains  of  fish  of  strangely  antique  forms.  "The  earth,  foi 
anything  that  appears  to  the  contrary,  might  lave  been  made 
yesterday  !  "  Do  appearances  such  as  these  warrant  the  infer- 
ence ?  Do  these  human  skeletons,  in  all  their  various  stages 
of  decay,  appear  as  if  they  had  been  made  yesterday  ?  Was 
that  bit  of  coffin,  with  the  soiled  tinsel  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
''orroded  nail  sticking  out  of  the  other,  made  yesterday  ?  Was 
yon(?*?r  skull,  instead  of  having  ever  formed  part  of  a  hunan 
head,  created  yesterday,  exactly  the  repulsive-looking  sort  of 
thing  we  see  it  ?  Indisputably  not.  Such  is  the  nature  of  the 
human  mind,  —  such  the  laws  that  regulate  and  control  human 
belief,  —  that  in  the  very  existence  of  that  churchyard  we  do 
and  must  recognize  positive  proof  that  the  world  was  not  made 
yesterday.  • 

But  can  we  stop  in  our  process  of  inference  at  the  moulder- 
ing remains  of  the  churchyard  ?  Can  we  hold  that  the  skull 
was  not  created  a  mere  skull,  and  yet  hold  that  the  oyster, 
muscle,  and  cockle  shells  beneath  are  not  the  remains  of  mol- 
luscous animals,  but  things  originally  created  in  exactly  their 
present  state,  as  empty  shells  ?  The  supposition  is  altogether 
absurd.  Such  is  the  constitution  of  our  minds,  that  we  must 
as  certainly  hold  yonder  oyster-shell  to  have  once  formed  part 
of  a  mollusc,  as  Ave  hold  yonder  skull  to  have  once  formed  part 
of  a  man.  And  if  we  cannot  stop  at  the  skeleton,  how  stop  at 
the  shells  ?  Why  not  pass  on  to  the  fish  ?  The  evidence?  of 
design  is  quite  as  irresistible  in  them  as  in  the  human  or  the 
molluscous  remains  above.  We  can  still  see  the  scales  which 
covered  them  occupying  their  proper  places,  with  all  their 
nicely-designed  bars,  hooks,  and  nails  of  attachment .  the  fins 
which  propelled  them  through  the  water,  witV  the  multitudin 
ous  pseudo-joints,  formed  to  impart  to  the  rays  the  proper  elas- 
ticity, .ie  widely  spread  on  the  stone ;  the  sharp-pointed  teeth, 
30 


350  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    Of 

constructed  like  thosii  of  fish  generally,  rather  for  the  puiy.cst 
of  holding  fast  slipj)ery  substances  than  of  mastication,  stih 
bristle  in  their  jaws ;  nay,  the  very  plates,  spines,  and  scales 
of  the  fish  on  which  they  had  fed,  still  lie  undigested  in  their 
abdomens.  We  cannot  stop  short  at  the  shells  :  if  the  human 
skull  was  not  created  a  mere  skull,  nor  the  shell  a  mere  dead 
shell,  then  the  fossil  fish  could  not  have  been  created  a  mere 
fossil.  There  is  no  broken  link  in  the  chain  at  which  to  take 
our  stand  ;  and  yet,  having  once  recognized  the  fishes  as  such. 
—  having  recognized  them  as  the  remains  of  animals,  and  not 
as  stones  that  exist  in  their  original  state,  —  we  stand  com- 
mitted to  all  the  organisms  of  the  geological  scale. 

But  we  limit'  the  Divine  power,  it  may  be  said :  could  not 
the  Omnipotent  First  Cause  havg  created  all  the  fossils  of  the 
earth,  vegetable  and  animal,  in  their  fossil  state?  Yes,  cer- 
tainly; the  act  of  their  creation,  regarded  simply  as  an  act  of 
power,  does  not  and  cannot  transcend  his  infinite  ability.  He 
could  have  created  all  the  burying-grounds  of  the  earth,  vsrith 
all  their  broken  and  wasted  contents,  brute  and  human.  He 
could  have  created  all  the  mummies  of  Mexico  and  of"  Egypt 
as  such,  and  all  the  skeletons  of  the  catacombs  of  Paris.  It 
would  manifest,  however,  but  little  reverence  for  his  character 
to  compliment  his  infinite  power  at  the  expense  of  his  infinite 
wisdom.  It  would  be  doing  no  honor  to  his  name  to  regard 
him  as  a  creator  of  dead  skeletons,  mummies,  and  church' 
yards.  Nay,  we  could  not  recognize  him  as  such,  without 
giving  to  the  winds  all  those  principles  of  common  reason 
which  in  his  goodness  he  has  imparted  to  us  for  our  guidance 
in  the  ordinary  aflliirs  of  life.  In  this,  as  in  that  higher  sense 
adduced  by  our  Saviour,  "  God  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead,  but 
of  the  living."  In  the  celebrated  case  of  Eugene  Aram,  the 
skeleton  cf  liis  victim,  the  mr.rdered  Clark,  was  found    in  a 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  60 1 

cave;  but  how,  asked  the  criminal,  in  his  singularly  ingenious 
and  eloquent  defence,  could  that  skeleton  be  known  to  be 
Clark's  ?  The  cave,  he  argued,  had  once  been  a  heroiitage ; 
and  in  tinnes  past  hermitages  had  been  places  not  only  of  relig- 
ious retirement,  but  of  burial  also.  "  And  it  has  scarce  or  ever 
been  heard  of,"  he  continued,  "  but  that  every  cell  now  known 
contains  or  contained  those  relics  of  humanity,  —  some  muti- 
lated, some  entire.  Give  me  leave  to  remind  the  Court  that 
here  sat  solitary  sanctity,  and  here  the  hermit  and  the  ancho- 
rite hoped  that  repose  for  their  bones  when  dead,  they  here 
enjoyed  when  living.  Every  place  conceals  such  remains.  In 
fields,  on  hills,  on  highway  sidBS,  on  wastes,  on  commons,  lie 
frequent  and  unsuspected  bones.  But  must  some  of  the  living 
be  made  answerable  for  all  the  bones  that  earth  has  concealed 
and  chance  exposed?"  Such  were  the  reasonings,  on  this 
count,  of  Eugene  Aram  ;  and  it  behooved  the  jury  that  sat  upon 
him  in  judgment  to  bestow  upon  them  their  careful  consider- 
ation. But  how  very  difTerent  might  not  his  line  of  argument 
have  been,  had  the  conclusions  of  the  anti-geologist  squared 
with  the  principles  of  human  belief!  If  the  fossil  exuvia;  of  a 
fish,  or  the  fossil  skeleton  of  a  reptile,  may  have  never  belonged 
to  either  a  reptile  or  a  fish,  then  the  skeleton  of  a  man  may 
have  never  belonged  to  a  man.  No  more  could  be  argued, 
Aram  might  have  said,  from  the  finding  of  a  human  skeleton 
in  the  floor  of  a  cave,  than  from  the  finding  of  a  pebble  or  a 
piece  of  rock  in  the  floor  of  a  cave.  So  far  from  being  justified 
in  inferring  from  it  that  a  murder  had  been  perpetrated,  a  jury 
could  not  have  so  much  as  inferred  from  it  that  a  human 
creature  had  existed. 

Is  the  anti-geologist,  I  would  fain  ask,  prepared  to  give  uji 
the  great  argument  founded  on  design,  as  asserted  and  illus- 
trated   by    oil    the    master-mind?    who    have    written    on    the 


^52  FIRST    niPRESSlONS    OF 

EviJences?  Is  he  resolved,  in  the  vain  hope  of  bearing  dovvn 
the  geologist,  to  make  a  full  surrender  to  the  infidel  ?  Let  us 
mark  how  Paley's  well-known  illustration  of  the  watch  found 
on  the  moor  would  apply  in  this  controversy.  From  the  design 
exhibited  in  the  construction  of  the  watch,  the  existence  of  a 
designer  is  inferred ;  whereas,  from  a  stone  found  on  the  eome 
moor,  in  which  no  such  marks  of  design  are  apparent,  the 
Archdeacon  urges  that  no  such  inference  regarding  the  exist- 
ence of  a  designer  could  be  drawn.  But  what  would  be  thought 
of  the  man  who  could  assert  that  the  watch,  with  all  its  seem- 
ing design,  was  not  a  watch,  but  a  stone ;  and  that,  notwith- 
standing its  spring,  its  wheels,  'and  its  index,  it  had  never  been 
intended  to  measure  time  ?  What  could  be  said  of  a  sturdily 
avowed  belief  in  a  design  not  designed,  and  not  the  vvork  of  a 
designer,  —  in  a  watch  furnished  with  all  the  parts  of  a  watch, 
that  is,  notwithstanding,  a  mere  stone,  and  occupies  just  its 
proper  place  when  lying  among  the  other  stones  of  a  moor  i 
What  could  be  said  of  such  a  belief,  paraded  not  simply  as  a 
belief,  but  actually  as  of  the  nature  of  reasoning,  and  fitted  to 
bear  weight  in  controversy  ?  And  yet,  such  is  the  position  of 
the  anti-geologist,  who  sees  in  the  earth,  with  all  its  fossils,  no 
evidence  that  it  might  not  have  been  created  yesterday.  For 
obvious  it  is,  that  in  whatever  has  been  designed,  fitness  of 
parts  bears  reference  to  the  purposed  object  which  the  design 
subserves ;  and  that  if  there  be  no  purposed  object,  there  can 
exist  no  fitness  of  parts  in  relation  to  it,  and,  in  reality,  no 
iesign.  The  analogy  drawn  in  the  case  from  the  miracle  of 
creation  is  no  analogy  at  all.  It  is  not  contrary  to  the  laws 
which  control  human  belief,  that  the  first  races  of  every  suc- 
ceeding creation  should  have  been  called  into  existence  in  a 
state  of  full  development ;  nay,  it  is  in  palpable  and  harmonious 
accordn.nr.e  with  these  laws.     It  is  necessary  that  the  anima 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPL,K.  So'i 

which  had  no  parents  to  care  or  provide  for  it  should  come  intv. 
existence  in  a  state  of  maturity  sufficient  to  enable  it  to  care 
and  provide  for  itself;  it  is  equally  necessary  that  the  contem- 
porary vegetable,  its  food,  should  be  created  in  a  condition  that 
fitted  it  for  Ijeing  food.  Had  the  first  man  and  first  woman 
been  created  mere  infants,  they  would,  humanly  speaking,  have 
shared  the  fate  of  the  "  babes  in  the  wood."  Had  the  produc- 
tions of  the  vegetable  kingdom  been  created  in  an  analogous 
state  of  immaturity,  "  the  horse,"  to  borrow  from  an  old  proverb, 
"  would  have  died  when  the  grass  was  growing."  But  it  is 
contrary  to  the  laws  which  control  human  belief,  that  the  all- 
wise  Creator  should  be  a  maker  of  churchyards  full  of  the 
broken  debris  of  carcasses, — of  skeletons  never  purposed  to  com- 
pose the  framework  of  animals, —  of  watches  never  intended 
to  do  aught  than  perform  the  part  of  stones.* 

*  In  the  pages  of  no  writer  is  the  argument  drawn  from  the  miracle  of 
creation  —  if  argument  it  may  be  termed  —  at  once  so  ingeniously  as- 
serted and  so  ex(iuisitely  adorned,  as  in  the  pages  of  Chateaubriand.  The 
passage  is  comparatively  little  known  in  this  country,  and  so  I  quote  it 
entire  from  the  translation  of  a  friend. 

"  We  approach  the  last  objection  concerning  the  modern  origin  of  the 
globe.  '  The  earth,'  it  is  said, '  is  an  old  nurse,  whose  decrepitude  every- 
thing announces.  Examine  its  fijssils,  its  marblfcs,  its  gi-anites,  and  you 
•will  decipher  its  innumerable  years,  marked  by  circle,  by  stratum,  or  by 
branch,  like  those  of  the  serpent  by  his  rattles,  the  horse  by  his  teeth,  «.«■ 
the  stag  by  his  horns.' 

"This  difficulty  has  been  a  hundred  times  solved  liy  this  answer,— 
'  God  should  have  created,  and  without  question  has  created,  the  world, 
with  all  the  marks  of  antiquity  and  completeness  which  we  now  see.' 

"  Indeed,  it  is  probable  that  the  Author  of  nature*  at  first  planted  old 
forests  and  young  shoots,  —  that  animals  were  product  1,  some  full  ofcdays, 
others  adorned  with  all  the  graces  of  inftvncy.  Oaks,  as  they  pierced  the 
fruitful  soil,  would  bear  at  once  the  forsaken  nest  of  the  crow  and  the 
young  posterity  of  the  dove;  the  caterpillar  was  chrysalis  and  butterfly; 
the  insect,  fed  on  the  herb,  suspended  its  golden  egg  amid  the  forests,  or 
trembled  in  the  wavy  air;  the  bee  which  had  lived  but  a  single  moriiing 


354  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

I  confess  it  grieves  me  more  than  if  Puseyism  vver^^  the 
oiTender,  to  see  a  paper  such  as  the  London  "  Record,"  —  the 
organ  of  no  inconsiderable  section  of  the  Evangelical  Episco- 

reokonec"  its  ambrosia  by  generations  of  flowers.  We  must  believe  that 
the  sheep  was  laot  without  its  young,  the  fawn  without  its  little  ones.  — 
that  the  thickets  hid  nightingales,  astonished  with  their  own  first  musiCi, 
in  warming  the  fleeting  hopes  of  their  first  loves.  If  the  world  had  not 
been  at  once  young  and  old,  the  grand,  the  serious,  the  moral,  would 
disappear  from  nature  ;  for  these  sentiments  belong  essentially  to  the 
antique.  Every  scene  would  have  lost  its  wonders.  The  ruined  rock 
could  not  have  hung  over  the  abyss  ;  the  woods,  despoiled  of  every  chance 
appearance,  would  not  have  displayed  that  touching  disorder  of  trees 
bending  over  their  roots,  and  of  trunks  leaning  over  the  courses  of  the 
rivers.  Inspired  thoughts,  venerable  sounds,  magic  voices,  the  sacred 
gloom  of  forests,  would  vanish  with  the  vaults  which  served  them  for 
retreats  ;  and  the  solitudes  of  heaven  and  earth  would  remain  naked  and 
disenchanted,  in  losing  those  columns  of  oak  which  unite  them.  The  very 
day  when  the  ocean  dashed  its  first  waves  on  the  shores,  it  bathed  —  let 
us  not  doubt —  rocks  already  worn  by  the  bi-eakers,  beaches  strewn 
with  the  wrecks  of  shells,  and  headlands  which  sustained  against  the 
assaults  of  the  waters  the  crumbling  shores  of  earth.  Without  this  inher- 
ent old  age,  there  would  have  been  neither  pomp  nor  majesty  in  the  work 
of  the  Eternal  ;  and,  what  could  not  possibly  be,  nature  in  its  innocence 
fvould  have  been  less  beautiful  than  it  is  to-day  amid  its  corruption.  An 
insipid  infancy  of  plants,  animals,  and  elements,  would  have  crowned  a 
world  without  poetry.  But  God  was  not  so  tasteless  a  designer  of  the 
bowers  of  Eden  as  infidels  pretend.  The  man  king  was  himself  born 
thirty  years  old,  in  order  to  accord  in  his  majesty  with  the  ancient  grand- 
eur of  his  new  kingdom  ;  and  his  companion  reckoned  sixteen  springs 
which  she  had  not  lived,  that  she  might  harmonize  with  flowers,  birds, 
runocence,  love,  and  all  the  youthful  part  of  the  creation." 

This  is  unquestionably  fine  writing,  and  it  contains  a  considerable 
amount  of  general  truth.  But  not  a  particle  of  the  true  does  it  contain  in 
connection  with  the  one  point  which  the  writer  sets  himself  to  establish. 
There  exists,  as  has  been  shown,  a  reason,  palpable  in  the  nature  of 
things,  why  creation,  in  even  its  earliest  dawn,  should  not  have  exhibited 
\n  insipid  infancy  of  plants  and  animals  ;  the  animals,  otherwise,  could 
not  havg  survived,  and  thus  the  great  end  of  creation  would  have  been 
leCcated.     But  though  there  exists  an  obvious  reason  for  the  ore.ation  of 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  351) 

mcy  of  England,  — committing  itse  f  to  the  anti-geologists  on 
this  question.     At  the  meeting  of  the  British  Association  which 

the  full-grovfn  and  the  mature,  there  exists  no  reason  whatever  for  the 
creation  of  the  ruined  and  the  broken.  It  is  a  very  indift'erent  argument 
to  allege  that  the  poetic  sentiment  demanded  the  production  of  fractured 
shells  on  the  shores,  or  of  deserted  crows'  nests  in  the  trees.  If  senti- 
ment demanded  the  creation  of  broken  shells  that  had  never  belonged  to 
molluscous  animals,  how  much  more  imperatively  must  it  have  demanded 
the  creation  of  broken  human  skeletons  that  had  never  belonged  to  men  ! 
or,  if  it  rendered  necessary  the  creation  of  deserted  crows'  nests,  how 
much  more  urgent  the  necessity  for  the  creation  of  deserted  palaces  and 
temples,  sublime  in  their  solitude,  or  of  desolate  cities  partially  buried  in 
the  sands  of  the  desert !  There  is  a  vast  deal  more  of  poetry  in  the  ancient 
sepulchres  of  Thebes  and  of  Luxor,  with  their  silent  millions  of  the  em 
balmed  dead,  than  in  the  comminuted  shells  of  se;i-beaches  ;  and  in  Pal- 
myra and  the  pyramids,  than  in  deserted  crows'  nests.  Nor  would  the 
creation  of  the  one  class  of  pi-oductions  be  in  any  degree  less  probable,  or 
less  according  to  the  principles  of  human  belief,  than  the  other.  And 
mark  the  inevitable  etfects  on  human  conduct !  The  man  who  honestly 
held  with  Chateaubriand  in  this  passage,  and  was  consistent  in  following 
out  to  their  legitimate  consequences  the  tenets  which  it  embodies,  could 
not  sit  ii8  a  juryman  in  either  a  coroner's  inquest  or  a  trial  for  murder, 
conducted  on  circumstantial  evidence.  If  he  held  that  an  old  crow's  nest 
might  have  been  called  into  existence  as  such,  how  could  he  avoid  holding 
that  an  ancient  human  dwelling  might  not  have  been  called  into  existence 
as  such.'  If  he  held  that  a  broken  patella  on  whelk-shell  might  have 
been  created  a  broken  shell,  how  could  he  avoid  holding  that  a  human 
Bkull,  fractured  like  that  of  the  murdered  Clark,  might  not  have  been 
created  a  broken  skull  ?  To  him  Paley's  watch,  picked  up  on  a  moor, 
could  not  ai)pear  as  other  than  merely  a  curious  stone,  charged  with  nc 
evidence,  in  the  peculiarity  of  its  construction,  that  it  had  been  intcndeil 
to  measure  time.  The  entire  passage  is  eminently  characteristic  of  that 
magnificent  work  of  imagination,  "The  Genius  of  Christianity,"  in 
which  Ciiateaubriand  sets  himself  to  reconvert  to  Romanism  the  infidelity 
of  France.  He  ever  attempts  dealing  by  the  reasoning  faculty  in  hia 
oountrymen,  as  the  Philistines  of  old  dealt  by  the  Jewish  champion  • 
idstcad  of  meeting  it  in  the  open  field,  and  with  the  legitimate  weapons, 
he  semis  foi  th  the  exquisitely  beautiful  Delilah  of  his  fancy  to  cajole  and 
set  it  aslecj ,  a.id  t'.ieu  bind  it  as  with  green  withes. 


356  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

\\.i\d  at  York  in  1844,  the  puerilities  of  Dean  Cockburn  were 
happily  met  with  and  exposed  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sedj^wick ;  and 
it  was  on  that  occasion  that  the  "  Record,"  after  pronouncing 
it  no  slight  satire  on  this  accomplished  man  of  science,  that 
one  of  the  members  present  should  have  eulogized  his  "  bold- 
ness as  a  clergyman,"  adopted  the  assertion,  —  can  it  be  called 
belief? — that  for  aught  vvhich  appears  to  the  contrary,  "the 
world  might  have  been  made  yesterday."  Attempts  to  support 
the  true  in  religion  by  the  untrue  in  science,  manifest,  I  am 
afraid,  exceedingly  little  wisdom.  False  witnesses,  when  en- 
gaged in  just  causes,  serve  but  to  injure  them  ;  and  certainly 
neither  by  anti-geologists  nor  at  the  Old  Bailey  should  "  kissing 
the  book"  be  made  a  preliminary  to  supporting  the  untrue.  I 
do  not  find  that  the  truly  great  theologians  of  the  day  manifest 
any  uneasy  jealousy  of  geological  discovery.  Geologists,  ex- 
patiating in  their  proper  province,  have  found  nothing  antago- 
nistic in  the  massive  intellect  and  iron  logic  of  Dr.  Cunning- 
ham, of  Edinburgh,  nor  in  the  quick  comprehensiveness  and 
elastic  vigor  of  Dr.  Candlish.  Chalmers  has  already  given  his 
deliverance  on  this  science,  —  need  it  be  said  after  what  man- 
ner ? —  and  in  a  recent  number  of  the  "North  British  Review" 
may  be  found  the  decision  regarding  it  of  a  kindred  spirit,  the 
author  of  the  "Natural  History  of  Enthusiasm."  "The 
reader,"  says  this  distinguished  man,  in  adverting  to  certain 
influential  causes  that  in  the  present  day  widely  affect  theologic 
opinion  and  the  devotional  feeling,  "  will  know  that  we  here 
refer  to  that  indirect  modification  of  religious  notions  and  sen- 
timents, that  results  insensibly  from  the  spread  and  consolida- 
tion of  the  modern  sister  sciences.  Astronomy  and  Geology, 
which,  immeasurably  enlarging,  as  they  do,  our  conceptions  of 
the  unive'se  in  its  two  elements  of  space  and  time,  expel  a 
congeries   )f  narrow  errors,  heretofore  regarded  as  untpi^stiona' 


ENGIaNIJ    and    its    Phorl.fi,.  357 

ble  truths,  and  open  before  us  at  ot.ce  a  Chart  and  a  Hi  tory 
of  the  Dominions  of  Infinite  Power  and  Wisdom.  We  shall 
hasten  to  exclude  the  supposition,"  he  continues,  "  that,  in  thus 
mentioning  the  relation  of  the  modern  sciences  to  Christianity 
we  are  thinking  of  anything  so  small  and  incidental  as  are  the 
alleged  discrepancies  between  the  terms  of  Biblical  history,  in 
certain  instances,  and  the  positive  evidence  of  science.  All 
such  discordances,  vvhether  real  or  apparent,  will  find  the 
proper  means  of  adjustment  readily  and  finally  in  due  time. 
We  have  no  anxieties  on  the  subject.  Men  'easily  shaken  in 
mind'  will  rid  themselves  of  the  atoms  of  faith  which  perhaps 
they  once  possessed,  by  the  means  of  '  difficulties '  such  as 
these.  But  it  is  not  from  causes  so  superficial  that  serious 
danger  to  the  faith  of  a  people  is  to  be  apprehended."  The 
passages  which  follow  this  very  significant  one  are  eminently 
beautiful  and  instructive ;  but  enough  is  here  given  to  indicate 
the  judgment  of  the  writer  on  the  point  at  issue. 

There  is,  I  doubt  not,  a  day  coming,  when  writers  on  the 
evidences  of  the  two  Theologies,  Natural  and  Revealed,  will 
be  content  to  borrow  largely  from  the  facts  of  the  geologist. 
Who  among  living  men  may  anticipate  the  thinking  of  future 
generations,  or  indicate  in  what  direction  new  avenues  into  the 
regions  of  thought  shall  yot  be  opened  up  by  the  key  of  unborn  ' 
genius  ?  The  births  of  the  human  intellect,  like  those  which 
take  place  in  the  human  family,  await  their  preuestined  time. 
There  are,  however,  two  distinct  theologic  vistas  on  the  geo- 
logic field,  that  seem  to  open  up  of  themselves.  »nfidelity  has 
toiled  hard  to  obviate  the  necessity  of  a  First  Great  Cause,  by 
the  fiction  of  an  Infinite  Series;  and  Metaphysic  Theology  has 
labored  lard,  in  turn,  to  prove  the  fiction  untenable  and  absurd. 
But  me.aphysicians,  though  specially  assisted  in  the  woru'  by 
iuch  men  as  Beatlev  and  Roiiert  Hill,  have  not  been  success 


3^8  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ful.  They  /iave,  indeed,  shown  that  an  infijlte  seiie?  is,  trom 
man}'  points  of  \iew,  wholly  inco?iceivable,  but  they  have  not 
shown  that  it  is  impossible;  and  its  inconceivability  merely 
attaches  to  it  in  its  character  as  an  infinity  contemplated  entiie. 
Exactly  the  same  degree  of  inconceivability  attaches  to  "  the 
years  of  the  Eternal,"  if  we  attempt  comprehending  the  eter- 
nity of  Deity  oth3rwise  than  in  the  progressive  mode  which 
Locke  so  surely  demonstrates  to  be  the  only  possible  one :  we 
can  but  take  our  stand  at  some  definite  period,  and  realize  the 
possibility  of  measuring  backwards,  along  the  course  of  His 
existence  for  ever  and  ever,  and  have  at  every  succeeding  stage 
an  undiminished  infinitude  of  work  before  us.  Metaphysic 
Theology  furnishes  no  real  argument  against  the  "Infinite 
Series "  of  the  atheist.  But  Geology  supplies  the  wanting 
link,  and  laughs  at  the  idle  fiction  of  a  race  of  men  without 
begiiming.  Infinite  series  of  human  creatures  !  Why,  man  is 
but  of  yesterday.  The  fish  enjoyed  life  during  many  crea- 
tions,—  the  bird  and  reptile  during  not  a  few,  —  the  marsupial 
quadruped  ever  since  the  times  of  the  Oolite,  —  the  sagacious 
elephant  in  at  least  the  latter  ages  of  the  Tertiary.  But  man 
belongs  to  the  present  creation,  and  to  it  exclusively.  He  came 
into  being  late  on  the  Saturday  eve?iing.  He  has  come,  as  the 
great  moral  instincts  of  his  nature  so  surely  demonstrate,  to 
prepare  for  the  sacred  to-morrow.  In  the  chariot  of  God's  prov- 
idence, as  seen  by  the  prophet  in  vision,  there  are  wheels  within 
wheels,  —  a  complex  duality  of  type  and  symbol :  and  there 
may  possibly  exist  a  similar  complexity  of  arrangement,  —  a 
similar  duality  of  typical  plan,  —  in  the  Divine  institution  of 
the  Sabbath.  Its  place,  as  the  seventh  day,  may  bear  reference, 
not  only  to  that  s  )ccial  subordinate  week  in  which  the  existing 
scene  of  <hings  -vas  called  into  being,  but  also  to  that  great 


T!:ngla\d  and  its  peoplk.  359 

geologic  week,  within  which  is  comprised  the  tnt  le  scheme  of 
creation. 

Tne  second  theological  vista  into  the  geol  gic  field  opens  uf 
a  still  more  striking  prospect.  There  is  a  iad  c  ppressiveness 
in  that  sense  of  human  littleness  which  tne  great  truths  of 
astronomy  have  so  direct  a  tendency  to  inspire.  Man  feek 
himself  lost  amid  the  sublime  magnitudes  of  creation,  —  a  mere 
atom  in  the  midst  of  infinity;  and  trembles  lest  the  scheme  ot 
revelation  should  be  found  too  large  a  manifestation  of  the 
Divine  care  for  so  tiny  an  ephemera.  Now,  I  am  much  mis- 
taken if  the  truths  of  Geology  have  not  a  direct  tendency  to 
restore  him  to  his  true  place.  When  engaged  some  time  since 
in  perusing  one  of  the  sublimest  philosophic  poems  of  modern 
times,  —  the  "  Astronomical  Discourses  "  of  Dr.  Chalmers,  — 
tnere  occurred  to  me  a  new  argument  that  might  be  employed 
against  the  infidel  objection  which  the  work  was  expressly 
written  to  remove.  Tiie  infidel  points  to  tlie  planets  ;  and, 
reasoning  from  an  analogy  wliich,  on  other  than  geologic  data, 
the  Christian  cannot  challenge,  asks  whether  it  be  not  more 
than  probable  that  each  of  these  is,  like  our  own  earth,  not  only 
a  scene  of  creation,  but  also  a  home  of  rational,  accountable 
creatures.  And  then  follows  the  objection,  as  fully  stated  by 
Dr.  Chalmers  :  —  "  Does  not  the  largeness  of  that  field  which 
astronomy  lays  open  to  the  view  of  modern  science  throw  a 
suspicion  over  the  truth  of  the  Gospel  history  ?  and  how  jhall 
we  reconcile  the  greatness  of  that  wonderful  movement  which 
was  made  in  heaven  for  the  redemption  of  fallen  man,  with  the 
comparative  meanness  and  obscurity  of  our  species  ?  Geology, 
when  the  doctor  wrote,  was  in  a  state  cf  comparative  infancy, 
ft  has  since  been  largely  developed,  tid  we  have  been  intro- 
duced, in  consequence,  to  the  knowledge  of  some  five  or  six 
different  crea  ions,  of  which  this  globe  was  the  succes.><ive  s^ene 


360  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ere  the  present  creation  was  called  into  being.  At  the  time  the 
■'Astronomical  Discourses "  were  published,  the  infidel  coulr* 
3ase  his  analogy  on  his  knowledge  of  but  one  creation,  —  that 
So  which  we  ourselves  belong ;  whereas  we  can  now  base  our 
analogy  on  the  knowledge  of  at  least  six  creations,  the  vari- 
ous productions  of  which  we  can  handle,  examine,  and  com- 
pare. And  how,  it  may  be  asked,  does  this  immense  extent 
of  basis  affect  the  objection  with  which  Dr.  Chalmers  has  grap- 
pled so  vigorously  ?  It  annihilates  it  completely.  You  argue 
—  may  not  the  geologist  say  to  the  infidel  —  that  yonder  planet, 
because  apparently  a  scene  of  creation  like  our  own,  is  also  a 
home  of  accountable  creatures  like  ourselves  ?  But  the  ex- 
tended analogy  furnished  by  geologic  science  is  full  against 
you.  Exactly  so  might  it  have  been  argued  regarding  oui 
own  earth  during  the  early  creation  represented  by  the  Lower 
Silurian  system,  and  yet  the  master-existence  of  that  extended 
period  was  a  crustacean.  Exactly  so  might  it  have  been  argued 
regarding  the  earth  during  the  term  of  the  creation  represented 
by  the  Old  Red  Sandstone,  and  yet  the  master-existence  of 
that  not  less  extended  period  was  a  fish.  During  the  creation 
represented  by  the  Carboniferous  period,  with  all  its  rank  vege- 
tation and  green  I'eflected  light,  the  master-existence  was  a 
fish  still.  During  the  creation  of  the  Oolite,  the  master-exist- 
ence was  a  reptile,  a  bird,  or  a  marsupial  animal.  During 
the  creation  of  the  Cretaceous  period,  there  was  no  further 
advance.  During  the  creation  of  the  Tertiary  formations,  the 
master-existence  was  a  mammiferous  quadruped.  It  was  not 
until  the  creation  to  which  we  ourselves  belong  was  called  into 
existence,  that  a  rational  being,  born  to  anticipate  a  hereafter, 
was  ushered  upon  the  scene.  Suppositions  such  as  yours 
would  have  been  false  in  at  least  five  out  of  six  instances;  and 
if  in  five  out  of  six  coiiseciitive  creations  there  existed  no  account- 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEdPLE.  361 

able  agent,  what  shadow  of  reason  can  there  be  for  holding 
that  a  different  arrangement  obtains  in  five  out  of  six  contem- 
porary  creations  ?  Mercury,  Venus,  Mars,  Jupiter,  Saturn, 
and  Uranus,  may  have  all  their  plants  and  animals  :  and  yet 
they  may  be  as  devoid  of  rational,  accountable  creatures,  as  were 
the  creations  of  the  Silurian,  Old  Red  Sandstone,  Carbonifer- 
ous, Oolitic,  Cretaceous,  and  Tertiary  periods.  They  may  be 
merely  some  of  the  "many  mansions  "  prepared  in  the  "  Father's 
house  "  for  the  immortal  creature  of  kingly  destiny,  made  in 
the  Father's  own  image,  to  whom  this  little  world  forms  but 
the  cradle  and  the  nursery. 

But  the  effect  of  this  extended  geologic  basis  may  be  neu 
tralized, —  the  infidel  may  urge,  —  by  extending  it  yet  a  little 
further.  Why,  he  may  ask,  since  we  draw  our  analogies  regard- 
ing what  obtains  in  the  other  planets  from  what  obtains  in  our 
own,  —  why  not  conclude  that  each  one  of  them  has  also  had 
its  geologic  eras  and  revolutions,  —  its  Silurian,  0|d  Red  Sand- 
stone, Carboniferous,  Oolitic,  Cretaceous,  and  Tertiary  periods  ; 
and  that  now,  contemporary  with  the  creation  of  which  man 
constitutes  the  master-existence,  they  have  all  their  fully 
matured  creations  headed  by  rationality  ?  Why  not  carry  the 
analogy  thus  far  ?  Simply,  it  may  be  unhesitatingly  urged  in 
reply,  because  to  carry  it  so  far  would  be  to  carry  it  beyond 
the  legitimate  bounds  of  analogy  ;  and  because  analogy  pursued 
but  a  single  step  beyond  the  limits  of  its  proper  province,  is 
sure  always  to  land  the  pursuer  in  error.  Analogy  is  not 
identity  It  is  safe  when  it  deals  with  generals ;  very  unsafe 
when  it  grapples  with  particulars. 

Analogy,   I  repeat,  is   not  identity.     Let  me  attempt  illus- 
trating the    fact   in    its    bearing    on    this  question.     We   find 
reason  to  conclude,  as  Isaac  'J'aylor  well  expresses  it,  that  "  tiie 
planetary   stuff  is   ail   one   and    the   same."     And    we  krow 
31 


362  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

to  a  certainty,  that  human  nature,  vvherever  it  exists  in  the 
present  state  of  things,  "  is  all  one  and  the  same  "  also.  Bi  t 
when  reasoning  analogically  regarding  either,  we  can  but  cal- 
culate on  generals,  not  particulars.  Man  being  all  over  the 
world  a  constructive,  house-making  animal,  and,  withal,  fond 
of  ornament,  one  would  be  quite  safe  in  arguing  analogically 
from  an  acquaintance  with  Europe  alone,  that  wherever  there 
is  a  civilized  nation,  architecture  must  exist  as  an  art.  But 
analogy  is  not  identity  ;  and  he  would  be  egregiously  in  error 
who  would  conclude  that  nations,  civilized  or  semi-civjlized, 
such  as  the  Chinese,  Hindoos,  or.  ancient  Mexicans,  possess 
not  only  an  ornate  architecture,  but  an  architecture  divided 
into  two  great  schools  ;  and  that  the  one  school  has  its  Doric, 
Ionic,  and  Corinthian  orders,  and  the  other  school  its  Saxon, 
Norman,  and  Florid  styles.  In  like  manner,  man's  nature; 
being  everywhere  the  same,  it  may  be  safely  inferred  that  man 
will  everywhere  be  an  admirer  of  female  beauty.  But  analogy 
is  not  identity  ;  and  it  would  be  a  sad  mistake  to  argue,  just 
as  one  chanced  to  be  resident  in  Africa  or  England,  that  man 
everywhere  admired  black  skin^  and  flat  noses,  or  a  fair  com- 
plexion and  features  approximating  to  the  Grecian  type.  And 
instances  of  a  resembling  character  may  be  multiplied  without 
end.  Analogy,  so  sagacious  a  guide  in  its  own  legitimate 
field,  is  utterly  blind  and  senseless  in  the  piecincts  that  lie 
beyond  it :  it  is  nicely  correct  in  its  generals,  —  perversely  erro- 
neous in  its  particulars  ;  and  no  sooner  does  it  quit  its  propel 
province,  the  general,  for  the  particular,  than  there  start  up 
around  it  a  multitude  of  solid  objections,  sternly  to  challenge 
it  as  a  trespasser  on  grounds  not  its  own.  How  infer,  we  may 
well  ask  the  infidel,  — admitting,  for  the  argument's  sake,  that 
all  the  planets  come  under  the  law  of  geologic  revolution,  — 
how  infer  that  they  have  all,  or  any  ot  them  save  our  owp 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLli.  303 

earth,  arrived  al  the  stage  of  stability  and  ripeness  essential  to 
a  fully-developed  creation,  with  a  reasoning  creature  as  its 
master-existence  ?  Look  at  the  immense  mass  of  Jupiter,  and 
at  that  mysterious  mantle  of  cloud,  barred  and  streaked  in  the 
direction  of  his  trade  rahids,  that  forever  conceals  his  face. 
May  not  that  dense  robe  of  cloud  be  the  ever-ascending  steam 
of  a  globe  that,  in  consequence  of  its  vast  bulk,  has  not  suffi- 
ciently cooled  down  to  be  a  scene  of  life  at  all  ?  Even  the 
analogue  of  our  Silurian  creation  may  not  yet  have  begun  in 
Jupiter.  Look,  again,  at  Mercury,  where  it  bathes  in  a  fllooa 
of  light,  —  enveloped  within  the  sun's  halo,  like  some  forlorn 
smelter  sweltering  beside  his  furnace-mouth.  A  similar  state 
of  things  may  obtain  on  the  surface  of  that  planet,  from  a 
difTerent,  though  not  less  adequate  cause.  But  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  deal  further  with  an  analogy  so  palpably  overstrained, 
and  whose  aggressive  place  and  position  in  a  province  not  it? 
own  so  many  unanswerable  objections  start  up  to  elucidatt 
and  fix. 

The  subject,  however,  is  one  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
exhaust.  The  Christian  has  nothing  to  fear,  the  infidel  noth- 
ing to  hope,  from  the  great  truths  of  geology.  It  is  assuredly 
not  through  any  enlargement  of  man's  little  apprehension  ot 
the  Infinite  and  the  Eternal  that  man's  faith  in  tlie  scheme  of 
salvation  by  a  Redeemer~need  be  shaken.  We  are  incalcula- 
bly more  in  danger  from  one  unsubdued  passion  of  our  lower 
nature,  even  the  weakest  and  the  least,  than  from  all  that  the 
astronomer  has  yet  discovered  in  the  depths  of  heaven,  er  the 
geologist  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  If  one's  heart  be  righf^  it 
IS  surely  a  good,  not  an  evil,  that  one's  view  should  be  ex- 
panded ;  and  geology  is  simply  an  expansion  of  view  in  the 
direct'  -n  of  the  eternity  that  hath  gone  by. 

It  is  not   ?ss,  but  more  sublime,  to  take  one's  stand  on  the 


304  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

summit  of  a  lotty  mountain,  and  thence  survey  the  great  iicear 
over  many  broad- regions,  — over  plains,  and  forests,  and  undu 
lating  tracts  of  hills,  and  blue  remote  promontories,  and  far- 
seen  islands,  —  than  to  look  forth  on  the  same  vast  expanse 
from  the  level  champaign,  a  single  field's  breadth  from  the 
shore.  It  can  indeed  be  in  part  conceived  from  either  point 
how  truly  sublime  an  object  that  ocean  is,  —  how  the  voyagei 
may  sail  over  it  day  after  day,  and  yet  see  no  land  rise  on  the 
dim  horizon,  —  how  its  numberless  waves  roll,  and  its  great  cur- 
rents ceaselessly  flow,  and  its  restless  tides  ever  rise  and  fall, — 
how  the  lights  of  heaven  are  mirrored  on  its  solitary  surface, 
solitary,  though  the  navies  of  a  world  be  there,  —  and  how, 
where  plummet-line  never  sounded,  and  where  life  and  light 
alike  cease,  it  reposes  with  mai'ble-like  density,  and  more  than 
Egyptian  blackness,  on  the  regions  of  a  night  on  which  there 
dawns  no  morning.  But  the  larger  view  inspires  the  pro- 
founder  feeling.  The  emotion  is  less  overpowering,  the  con- 
ception less  vivid,  when  from  the  humble  flat  we  see  but  a 
band  of  water  rising  to  where  the  sky  rests,  over  a  narrow 
selvage  of  land,  than  when,  far  beyond  an  ample  breadth  of 
foreground,  and  along  an  extended  line  of  coast,  and  streaked 
with  promontories  and  mottled  with  islands,  and  then  spread- 
ing on  and  away  in  an  ample  plam  of  diluted  blue,  to  the 
far  horizon,  we  see  the  great  ocean  in  its  true  character,  wide 
and  vast  as  human  ken  can  descry.  And  such  is  the  sublime 
prospect  presented  to  the  geologist,  as  he  turns  him  towards 
the  shoreless  ocean  of  the  upper  eternity.  The  mere  theolo- 
gian views  that  boundless  expanse  from  a  flat,  and  there  lies 
in  front  of  him  but  the  narrow  strip  of  the  existing  creation, — 
a  green  selvage  of  a  field's  breadth,  fretted  thick  by  the  tombs 
of  dead  men  ;  while  to  the  eye  purged  and  strengthened  by  the 
ruphrasy  of  science,  tie  many  vast  regions  of  other  creations. 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLK.  3Gil 

—  promontory  beyond  promontory,  —  island  beyond  island, — 
stretch  out  in  sublime  succession  into  that  boundless  ocean  of 
eternity,  whose  sumless,  irreducible  area  their  vast  extent  fails 
to  lessen  by  a  single  handbreadth, —  that  awful,  inconceivable 
eternity,  —  God"s  past  lifetime  in  its  relation  to  God's  finite 
creatures,  —  with  relation  to  the  infinite  I  AM  himself,  the  in- 
divisible element  of  the  eternal  now.  And  there  are  thoughts 
which  arise  in  connection  with  the  ampler  prospect,  and  anal- 
ogies, its  legitimate  produce,  that  have  assuredly  no  tendency 
to  confine  man's  aspirations,  or  cramp  his  cogitative  energies, 
within  the  narrow  precincts  of  mediocre  unbelief.  What  mean 
the  peculiar  place  and  standing  of  our  species  ip  the  great 
geologic  week  ?  There  are  tombs  everywhere  :  each  succeed- 
ing region,  as  the  eye  glances  upwards  towards  the  infinite 
abyss,  is  roughened  with  graves;  the  pages  on  which  the  his- 
tory of  the  past  is  written  are  all  tombstones;  the  inscriptions, 
epitaphs  :  we  read  the  characters  of  the  departed  mhabitants 
in  their  sepulchral  remains.  And  all  these  unreasoning  creat- 
ures of  the  bygone  periods  —  these  humbler  pieces  of  work- 
manship produced  early  in  the  week  —  died,  as  became  their 
natures,  without  intelligence  or  hope.  They  perished  ignorant 
of  the  past,  and  unauticipative  of  the  future,  —  knowing  not  ot 
the  days  that  had  gone  before,  nor  recking  of  the  days  that 
were  to  come  after.  But  not  such  the  character  of  the  lasl 
born  of  God's  creatures,  —  the  babe  that  came  into  being  lato 
on  the  Saturday  evening,  and  that  now  whines  and  murmura 
away  its  time  of  extreme  infancy  during  the  sober  hours  ol 
preparation  for  the  morrow.  Already  have  the  quick  eyes  of 
the  child  looked  abroac  upon  all  the  past,  and  already  has  it 
not?d  why  the  passing  time  should  be  a  time  of  sedulous  dili- 
gei.;e  and  expectancy.  The  work-day  week  draws  fast  to  Jta 
ose,  and  to-morrow  is  the  Sabbath  ! 
Ill* 


.^bfi  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

The  PerL:y-a-mile  Train  and  its  Passengers. — Aunt  Jonathan.  —  London 
by  Night.  —  St.  Paul's  ;  the  City  as  seen  from  the  Dome.  — The  Lord 
Mayor's  Coach.  —  Westminster  Abbey.  —  The  Gothic  Architecture  a 
less  exquisite  Production  of  the  Human  Mind  than  the  Grecian.  —  Poets' 
Corner.  —  The  Mission  of  the  Poets.  —  The  Tombs  of  the  Kings.  —  The 
Monument  of  James  Watt.  —  A  humble  CofTee-house  and  its  Frequent- 
ers.—  The  Woes  of  Genius  in  London.  —  Old  110,  Thames-street.— 
The  Tower.  —  The  Thames  Tunnel.  —  Longings  of  the  True  Londunrr 
for  Rural  Life  and  the  Country;  their  Influence  on  Literature.  —  The 
British  Museum  ;  its  splendid  Collection  of  Fossil  Remains.  —  Human 
Skeleton  of  Guadaloupe.  —  The  Egyptian  Room. —  Domesticities  of  the 
Ancient  Egyptians.  — Cycle  of  Reproduction.  —  The  Mummies. 

I  MUST  again  take  the  liberty,  as  on  a  former  occasion,  of 
ante-dating  a  portion  of  my  tour:  I  did  not  proceed  direct  to 
London  from  Olney;  but  as  I  have  nothing  interesting  to  record 
of  my  journeyings  in  the  interval,  I  shall  pursue  the  thread  of 
my  narrative  as  if  I  had. 

For  the  sake  of  variety,  I  had  taken  the  penny-a-mile  train ; 
and  derived  some  amusement  from  the  droll  humors  of  my 
travelling  companions,  —  a  humbler,  coarser,  freer,  and,  withal, 
merrier  section  of  the  people,  than  the  second-class  travellers 
whose  acquaintance,  in  at  least  my  railway  peregrinations, 
had  chieflv  cultivated  hitherto.  We  had  not  the  happiness  o/ 
producing  any  very  good  jokes  among  us;  but  there  were  many 
laudable  attempts  ;  and,  though  the  wit  was  only  tolerr^'e,  the 
laughter  was  hearty.  There  was  an  old  American  lady  uf  the 
company,  fresh  from  Yankee-land,  who  was  grievously  teased 
for  the  general  benefit ;  but  aunt  Jonathan,  though  only  indif- 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  3G7 

ferently  furnished  with  teeth,  had  an  effective  tongue  ;  and 
Mis  er  Bull,  in  most  of  the  bouts,  came  off  but  second  best. 
The  American,  too,  the  igh  the  play  proved  now  and  then 
somewhat  of  a  horse  character,  was  evidently  conscious  that 
her  country  lost  no  hoior  by  her,  and  seemed  rather  gratified 
than  otherwise.  There  were  from  five-and-twenty  to  thirty 
passengers  in  the  van  ;  among  the  rest,  a  goodly  proportion  of 
town-bred  females,  who  mingled  in  the  fun  at  least  as  freely  as 
was  becoming,  and  were  smart,  when  they  could,  on  the  Amer- 
ican ;  and  immediately  beside  the  old  lady  there  sat  a  silent, 
ruddy  country  girl,  who  seemed  travelling  to  London  to  take 
service  in  some  family.  The  old  lady  had  just  received  a  hit 
from  a  smart  female,  to  whom  she  deigned  no  reply  ;  but,  turn  • 
ing  round  to  the  country  girl,  she  patted  her  on  the  shoulder, 
and  tendered  her  a  profusion  of  thanks  for  some  nameless 
obligation  which,  she  said,  she  owed  to  her.  "La!  to  me 
ma'am  ?"  said  the  girl.  —  "  Yes,  to  you,  my  pretty  dear,"  said 
the  American:  "it  is  (]nite  cheering  to  find  one  modest  Eng- 
lishwoman among  so  Jhv.^^  The  men  laughed  outrageously  ; 
the  females  did  not  like  the  joke  half  so  well,  and  bridled  up. 
And  thus  the  war  went  on.  The  weather  .had  been  unprom- 
ising,—  the  night  fell  exceedingly  dark  and  foul, —  there  were 
long  wearisome  stoppages  at  almost  every  station,  —  and  it  was 
within  an  hour  of  midnight,  and  a  full  hour  and  a  half  beyond 
the  specified  time  of  arrival,  ere  we  entered  the  great  city.  I 
took  my  place  in  an  omnibus,  beside  a  half-open  window,  and 
away  ths  vehicle  trundled  for  the  Strand. 

The  night  was  extremely  dreary;  the  rain  fell  in  torrents; 
and  the  lamps,  flickering  and  flaring  in  the  wind,  threw  dismal 
gleams  over  the  half-flooded  streets  and  the  wot  pa\ement, 
revealing  the  pyramidal  rain-drops  as  they  danced  by  myriads 
n  the  pools,  or  splashed  against  the  smooth  slippery  flagstoni^s. 


368  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

The  better^  shops  were  all  shut,  and  there  were  but  few  lighta 
in  the  windo.vs  :  sober,  reputable  London  seemed  to  have  gone 
to  its  bed  in  the  hope  of  better  weather  in  the  morning;  but 
here  and  there,  as  we  hurried  past  the  opening  of  some  lane 
or  alley,  I  could  mark  a  dazzling  glare  of  light  streaming  out 
into  the  rain  from  some  low  cellar,  and  see  forlorn  figures  of 
ill-dressed  men  and  draggled  women  flitting  about  in  a  style 
which  indicated  that  London  not  sober  and  not  reputable  was 
still  engaged  in  drinking  hard  drams.  Some  of  the  objects  we 
passed  presented  in  the  uncertain  light  a  ghostly-like  wildness, 
which  impressed  me  all  the  more,  that  1  could  but  guess  at 
their  real  character.  And  the  guesses,  in  some  instances,  were 
sufficiently  wide  of  the  mark.  I  passed  in  New  Eoad  a  singu- 
larly picturesque  community  of  statues,  which,  in  the  uncertain 
light,  seemed  a  parliament  of  spectres,  held  in  the  rain  and  the 
wind,  to  discuss  the  merits  of  the  "Interment  in  Towns"  Com- 
mission, somewhat  in  the  style  the  two  ghosts  discussed,  in 
poor  Ferguson's  days,  in  the  Greyfriars'  churchyard,  the  pro- 
posed investment  of  the  Scotch  Hospital  funds  in  the  Three 
per  Cents.  But  I  found  in  the  morning  that  the  picturesque 
parliament  of  ghosts  were  merely  the  chance-grouped  figures 
of  a  stone-cutter's  yard.  The  next  most  striking  object  I  saw 
were  the  long  ranges  of  pillars  in  Regent-street.  They  bore 
about  them  an  air  that  I  in  vain  looked  for  by  day,  of  doleful, 
iomb-like  grandeur,  as  the  columns  came  in  sight,  one  after 
one,  in  the  thickening  fog,  and  the  lamps  threw  their  paley 
gleams  along  the  endless  architrave.  Then  came  Charing 
Cross,  with  its  white  jetting  fountains,  sadly  disturbed  in  their 
play  by  the  wind,  and  its  gloomy,  shade-like  equestrians.  And 
then  I  reached  a  quiet  lodging-house  in  Hungerford-street,  and 
tumbled,  a  litlle  after  midnight,  into  a  comfortable  bed.  The 
morning  arose  is  gloomily  as  the  evening  had  closed  ;  and  the 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  309 

first  sounds  I  heard,  as  I  awoke,  were  the  sharp  pafter  of  rain 
drops  on  the  panes,  and  the  dash  of  water  iVom  the  spouts  on 
the  pavement  below. 

Towards  noon,  however,  the  rain  ceased,  and  I  sallied  out  to 
see  London.  I  passed  great  and  celebrated  places, —  Warren's 
great  blacking  establishment,  and  the  great  house  of  the  outfit- 
ting Jew  and  his  son,  so  celebrated  in  "Punch,"  and  then  the 
great  -'Punch's"  own  office,  with  great  "Punch"  himself, 
pregnant  with  joke,  and  larger  than  the  life,  standing  sentinel 
over  the  door.  And  after  just  a  little  uncertain  wandering,  the 
uncertainty  of  which  mattered  nothing,  as  I  could  not  possibly 
go  wrong,  wander  where  1  might,  I  came  full  upon  St.  Paul's, 
and  entered  the  edifice.  It  is  comfortable  to  have  only  two- 
pence to  pay  for  leave  to  walk  over  the  area  of  so  noble  a  pile, 
and  to  have  to  pay  the  twopence,  too,  to  such  grave,  cleri- 
cal-looking men  as  the  officials  at  the  receipt  of  custom.  It 
reminds  one  of  the  blessings  of  a  religious  establishment  in  a 
place  where  otherwise  they  might  possibly  be  overlooked  :  nc 
private  company  could  afTord  to  build  such  a  pile  as  St.  Paul's 
and  then  show  it  for  twopences.  A  payment  of  eighteenpenc*- 
more  opened  my  way  to  the  summit  of  the  dome,  and  I  saw 
laid  fairly  at  my.  feet,  all  of  London  that  the  smoke  and  the 
weather  permitted,  in  its  existing  state  of  dishabille,  to  come 
into  sight.  But  though  a  finer  morning  might  have  presented 
me  with  a  more  extensive  and  more  richly-colored  prospect,  it 
would  scarce  have  given  me  one  equally  striking.  I  stood 
over  the  middle  of  a  vast  seething  cauldron,  and  looked  down 
through  the  blue  reek  on  the  dim  indistinct  forms  that  seemr i 
jKirboiling  within.  The  denser  clouds  were  rolling  away,  but 
their  huge  volu  nes  still  lay  folded  all  around  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  prospect.  I  could  see  a  long  reach  of  the  river,  with  its 
gigantic  bridges  striding  across  ;  but  *  ith  ends  o:"  the  tide.  hk« 


370  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

those  of  the  stream  seen  by  Mirza,  were  enveloped  in  dark 
ness;  and  the  bridges,  gray  and  unsolid-looking  themselves,  a^ 
if  cut  out  of  sheets  of  compressed  vapor,  seemed  leading  to  a 
spectral  city.  Immediately  in  the  foreground  there  lay  a  per- 
plexed labyrinth  of  streets  and  lanes,  and  untraceable  ranges 
of  buildings,  that  seemed  the  huddled-up  fragments  ol  a  frac- 
tured puzzle,  —  difficult  enough  of  resolution  when  entire,  and 
rendered  altogether  unresolvable  by  the  chance  that  had  broken 
it.  As  the  scene  receded,  only  the  larger  and  more  prominent 
objects  came  into  view,  —  here  a  spire,  and  there  a  monument, 
and  yonder  a  square  Gothic  tower;  and  as  it  still  further  re- 
ceded, I  could  see  but  the  dim  fragments  of  things,  —  bits  of 
churches  inwrought  into  the  cloud,  and  the  insulated  pedi- 
ments and  columned  fronts  of  public  buildings,  sketched  off  in 
diluted  gray.  I  was  reminded  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  recipe  for 
painting  a  battle  :  a  great  cloud  to  be  got  up  as  the  first  part 
of  the  process  ;  and  as  the  second,  here  and  there  an  arm  or  a 
leg  stuck  in,  and  here  and  there  a  head  or  a  body.  And  such 
was  London,  the  greatest  city  of  the  world,  as  I  looked  upon  it 
this  morning,  for  the  first  time,  from  the  golden  gallery  of  St. 
Paul's. 

The  hour  of  noon  struck  on  the  great  bell  far  below  my  feet; 
the  pigmies  in  the  thoroughfare  of  St.  Paul's  Yard,  still  further 
below,  v/ere  evidently  increasing  in  number  and  gathering  into 
groups ;  I  could  see  faces  that  seemed  no  bigger  than  fists 
thickening  in  the  windows,  and  dim  little  figures  starting  up 
on  the  leads  of  houses  ;  and  then,  issuing  into  the  Yard  from 
one  of  the  streets,  there  came  a  long  line  of  gay  coaches,  with 
the  identical  coach  in  the  midst,  all  gorgeous  and  grand, 
that  I  remembered  to  have  seen  done  in  Dutch  gold,  full  five- 
»»nd-thi  ty  years  before,  on  the  covers  of  a  splendid  sixpenny 
?dition  of  "  Whittington  and  his  Cat."     Hurrah  for  Whittingr 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOILE.  37  J 

ton,  Lord  Mayor  ot  London  I  Without  having  ome  ba  gained 
for  such  a  thing,  —  all  unaware  of  what  was  awaiting  me,  —  1 
had  ascended  St.  Paul's  to  see,  as  it  proved,  the  Lord  Mayor's 
procession.  To  be  sure,  I  was  placed  rather  high  for  witness- 
'ng  with  the  right  feeling  the  gauds  and  the  grandeurs.  All 
human  greatness  requires  to  be  set  in  a  peculiar  light,  and  does 
Mot  come  out  to  advantage  when  seen  from  either  too  near  or 
too  distant  a  point  of  view;  and  here  the  sorely-diminished 
pageant  at  my  feet  served  rather  provokingly  to  remind  one  of 
Addison's  ant-hill  scene  of  the  Mayor  emmet,  with  the  bit  of 
white  rod  in  its  mouth,  followed  by  the  long  line  of  Aldermanic 
and  Common  Council  emmets,  all  ready  to  possess  themselves 
of  the  bit  of  white  rod  in  their  own  behalf,  should  it  chance  to 
drop.  Still,  however,  there  are  few  things  made  of  leather 
and  prunello  really  grander  than  the  Lord  Mayor's  procession. 
Slowly  the  pageant  passed  on  and  away;  the  groups  dis- 
persed in  the  streets,  the  faces  evanished  from  the  windows, 
the  figures  disappeared  from  the  house-tops  ;  the  entire  appa- 
rition and  its  accompaniments  melted  into  thin  air,  like  the 
vision  seen  in  the  midst  of  the  hollow  valley  of  Bagdad  ;  and 
I  saw  b'U  the  dim  city  parboiling  amid  the  clouds,  and  the 
long  leaden-colored  reach  of  the  river  bounding  half  the  world 
of  London,  as  the  monstrous  ocean  snake  of  the  Edda  more 
than  half  encircles  the  globe. 

My  next  walk  led  to  Westminster  Abbey  and  the  New 
Houses  of  Parliament,  through  St.  James'  Park.  The  un- 
promising character  of  the  day  had  kept  loungers  at  home  ; 
and  the  dank  trees  dripped  on  the  wet  grass,  and  loomed  largo 
through  the  gray  fog,  in  a  scene  of  scarce  less  solitude,  though 
the  roar  of  the  cit}'  was  all  around,  than  the  trees  of  SI  enstonu 
at  the  Leasowes.  I  walked  leisurely  once  and  agai  j  along 
the  Abbey,  as  I  had  done  at  St.  Paul's,  to  mark  the  general 


072  FrRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

aspect  and  effect,  and  tix  in  my  mind  the  proportions  and  trut! 
contour  of  the  bnilding.  And  the  conclusion  forced  upon  me 
was  just  that  at  which,  times  without  number,  I  had  invariably 
arrived  before.  The  Gothic  architecture,  with  all  its  solemn 
grandeur  and  beauty,  is  a  greatly  lower  and  less  exquisite 
production  of  the  human  intellect  than  the  architecture  of 
Greece.  The  saintly  legends  of  the  middle  ages  are  scarce 
less  decidedly  inferior  to  those  fictions  of  the  classic  mythology 
which  the  greater  Greek  and  Roman  writers  have  sublimed 
into  poetry.  I  have  often  felt  that  the  prevailing  bias  in  favor 
of  everything  mediceval,  so  characteristic  of  the  present  time, 
from  the  theology  and  legislation  of  the  middle  ages,  to  their 
style  of  staining  glass  and  illuminating  manuscripts,  cannot  be 
other  than  a  temporary  eccentricity,  —  a  mere  cross  freshet, 
;hance-raised  by  some  meteoric  accident,  —  not  one  of  the 
great  permanent  ocean-currents  of  tendency  ;  but  never  did  the 
conviction  press  upon  me  more  strongly  than  when  enabled  on 
this  occasion  to  contrast  the  new  architecture  of  St.  Paul's  with 
the  old  architecture  of  Westminster.  New  I  Old!  Modern' 
Ancient !  The  merits  of  the  controversy  lie  summed  up  in 
these  words.  The  new  architecture  is  the-struly  ancient  archi- 
tecture, while  the  old  is  comparatively  modern :  but  the  im- 
mortals are  always  young ;  whereas  the  mortals,  though  their 
term  of  life  may  be  as  extended  as  that  of  Methuselah,  grow 
old  apace.  The  Grecian  architecture  will  be  always  the  new 
architecture  ;  and,  let  fashion  play  whatever  vagaries  it  pleases, 
the  Gothic  will  be  always  old.  There  is  a  wonderful  amount 
of  genius  exhibited  in  the  contour  and  filling  up  of  St.  Paul's. 
In  passing  up  and  down  the  river,  which  I  did  frequently 
during  my  short  stay  in  London,  my  eye  never  wearied  of 
resting  on  it :  like  all  great  works  that  have  had  the  beautiful 
nwrought  into  their  essence  by  the  persevering  touches  of  a 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  373 

master,  the  more  I  dwelt  on  it,  the  more  exquisite  it  seemed  to 
become.  York  Minster,  the  finest  of  English  Gothic  buildings, 
is  perhaps  equally  impressive  on  a  first  survey ;  lut  it  exhibits 
no  such  soul  of  beauty  as  one  dwells  upon  it,  —  it  lacks  the 
halo  that  forms  around  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's.  I  was  not 
particularly  struck  by  the  New  Houses  of  Parliament.  They 
seem  prettily  got  up  to  order,  on  a  rich  pattern,  that  must  have 
cost  the  country  a  vast  deal  per  yard ;  and  have  a  great  many 
little  bits  of  animation  in  them,  which  remind  one  of  the 
communities  of  lives  that  dwell  in  compound  corals,  or  of  the 
divisible  life,  everywhere  diffused  and  nowhere  concentrated, 
that  resides  in  poplars  and  willows ;  but  they  want  the  one 
animating  soul  characteristic  of  the  superior  natures.  Unlike 
the  master-erection  of  Wren,  they  will  not  breathe  out  beauty 
into  the  minds  of  the  future,  as  pieces  of  musk  ( ontinue  to 
exhale  their  odor  for  centuries. 

I  walked  through  Poets'  Comer,  and  saw  many  a  familiar 
name  on  the  walls  :  among  others,  the  name  of  Dryden,  familiar 
because  he  himself  had  made  it  so;  and  the  name  of  Shadwell, 
familiar  because  he  had  quarrelled  with  Dryden.  There  also 
I  found  the  sepulchral  slab  of  old  cross  John  Dennis,  famous 
for  but  his  warfare  with  Pope  and  Addison  ;  and  there,  too,  the 
statue  of  Addison  at  full  length,  not  fur  from  the  periwigged 
effigy  of  the  bhiff'  English  admiral  that  had  furnished  him  with 
so  good  a  joke.  There,  besides,  may  be  seen  the  marble  of  the 
ancient  descriptive  poet  Drayton ;  and  there  the  bust  of  poor 
eccentric  Galdie,  with  his  careless  Irish  face,  who  thought 
Drayton  had  no  claim  to  such  an  honor,  but  whose  own  claim 
has  been  challenged  by  no  one.  I  had  no  strong  emotions  to 
exhibit  when  pacing  along  the  pavement  in  this  celebrated 
place,  nor  would  I  have  exliibited  them  if  1  had  :  and  yet  I  did 
feel  that  I  had  derived  much  pleasure  in  my  t'me  from  the  men 
32 


'J74  nnsT  impressions  of 

whose  names  conferred  honor  on  the  wall.  There  was  pool 
Goldsmith  :  he  had  been  my  companion  for  thirty  years  ;  I  had 
been  first  introduced  to  him  through  the  medium  of  a  common 
school  collection,  when  a  little  boy  in  the  humbitst  English 
class  of  a  parish  school ;  and  I  had  kept  up  the  acquaintance 
ever  since.  There,  too,  was  Addison,  whom  I  had  known  so 
long,  and,  in  his  true  poems,  his  prose  ones,  had  loved  as 
much ;  and  there  were  Gay,  and  Prior,  and  Cowley,  and 
Thomson,  and  Chaucer,  and  Spenser,  and  Milton ;  and  there, 
too,  on  a  slab  on  the  floor,  with  the  freshness  of  recent  inter- 
ment still  palpable  about  it,  as  if  to  indicate  the  race  at  least 
not  long  extinct,  was  the  name  of  Thomas  Campbell.  I  had 
got  fairly  among  my  patrons  and  benefactors.  How  often,  shut 
out  for  months  and  years  together  from  all  literary  converse 
with  the  living,  had  they  been  almost  my  only  companions, — 
my  unseen  associates,  who,  in  the  rude  work-shed,  lightened 
my  labors  by  the  music  of  their  numbers,  and  who,  in  my 
evening  walks,  that  would  have  been  so  solitary  save  for  them, 
expanded  my  intellect  by  the  solid  bulk  of  their  thinking,  and 
gave  me  eyes,  by  their  exquisite  descriptions,  to  look  at  nature  ! 
How  thoroughly,  too,  had  they  served  to  break  down  in  my 
mind  at  least  the  narrower  and  more  illiberal  partialities  of 
country,  leaving  untouched,  however,  .all  that  was  worthy  of 
being  cherished  in  my  attachment  to  poor  old  Scotland  !  I 
learned  to  deem  the  English  poet  not  less  my  countryman  than 
the  Scot,  if  I  but  felt  the  true  human  heart  beating  in  his 
bosom ;  and  the  intense  prejudices  which  I  had  imbibed  when 
almost  a  child,  from  the  fiery  narratives  of  Blind  Harry  and  of 
Barbour,  melted  aw"\y,  like  snow-wreaths  from  before  the  sun, 
under  the  genial  influences  of  the  glowing  poesy  of  England. 
ft  is  not  the  harp  of  Orpheus  that  will  e  Tectually  tame  the 
wild  beast  which  lies  ambushing  in  human  nature,  and  is  evp; 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  37c 

and  anop  breaking  forth  on  the  nations,  in  cruel,  desolating 
war.  The  work  of  giving  peace  to  the  earth  awaits  those 
divine  harmonies  which  breathe  from  the  Lyre  of  Inspiration 
when  swept  by  the  Spirit  of  God.  And  yet  the  harp  of  Or 
pheus  does  exert  an  auxiliary  power.  It  is  of  the  nature  of  its 
songs,  —  so  rich  in  the  human  sympathies,  so  charged  with  the 
thoughts,  the  imaginings,  the  hopes,  the  wishes,  which  it  is  the 
constitution  of  humanity  to  conceive  and  entertain, —  it  is  of 
their  nature  to  make  us  feel  that  the  nations  are  all  of  one 
blood,  —  that  man  is  our  brother,  and  the  world  our  country. 

The  sepulchres  of  the  old  English  monarchs,  with  all  their 
obsolete  grandeur,  impressed  me  more  feebly,  though  a  few 
rather  minute  circumstances  have,  1  perceive,  left  their  sta..Tp 
Among  the  royal  cemeteries  we  find  the  tombs  of  Mary  of 
Scotland,  and  her  great  rival  Elizabeth,  with  their  respective 
effigies  lying  atop,  cut  in  marble.  And  though  the  sculptures 
exhibit  little  of  the  genius  of  the  modern  statuary,  the  great 
care  of  their  finish,  joined  to  their  unideal,  unflattering  indi- 
viduality, afford  an  evidence  of  their  truth  which  productions 
of  higher  talent  could  scarce  possess.  How  comes  it,  then,  I 
would  fain  ask  tbe  phrenologist,  that  by  far  the  finer  head  of 
(he  two  should  be  found  on  the  shoulders  oT  the  weaker  woman? 
The  forehead  of  Mary  —  poor  Mary,  who  had  a  trick  of  fall- 
ing in  love  with  '' prelUj  men"  but  no  power  of  governing 
them  —  is  of  very  noble  development,  —  broad,  erect,  powerful ; 
while  that  of  Elizabeth,  — of  queenly,  sagacious  Elizabeth,  — 
tvho  could  both  fall  in  love  with  men  and  govern  them  too,  and 
who  was  unquestionably  a  great  monarch,  irrespective  of  sex,  — ■ 
is  a  poor,  narrow,  pinched-up  thing,  that  rises  tolerably  crei,( 
for  one-half  its  height,  and  then  slopes  abruptly  away.  Thn 
next  tl  ings  t'lat  caught  my  eye  were  two  slabs  of  Egyptian 
porph)  ry    —  i  well-marked  stone,  with  the  rich  purple  ground 


376  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS      IF 

spotted  white  and  pink,  —  inlt  d  as  panels  in  the  tomb  oi 
Edward  the  First.  Whence,  in  the  days  of  Edward,  could  the 
English  stone-cutter  have  procured  Egyptian  porpljyry  ?  I  was 
enabled  to  form  at  least  a  guess  on  the  subject,  from  possessing 
a  small  piece  of  exactly  the  same  stone,  which  had  been  picked 
up  amid  heaps  of  rubbish  in  the  deep  rocky  ravine  of  Siloam, 
and  which,  as  it  does  not  occur  -hi  situ  in  Judea,  was  supposed 
to  have  formed  at  one  time  a  portion  of  the  Temple.  Is  it  not 
probable  that  these  slabs,  which,  so  far  as  is  yet  known,  Europe 
could  not  have  furnished,  were  brought  by  Edward,  the  last 
of  the  crusading  princes  of  England,  from  the  Holy  Land,  to 
confer  sanctity  on  his  place  of  burial,  —  mayhap  originally, — 
though  Edward  himself  never  got  so  far,  —  from  that  identical 
ravine  of  Siloam  which  supplied  my  specimen  ?  It  was  not 
uncommon  for  the  crusader  to  take  from  Palestine  the  earth  in 
which  his  body  was  to  be  deposited  ;  and  if  Edward  succeeded 
in  procuring  a  genuine  bit  of  the  true  Temple,  and  an  exceed- 
ingly pretty  bit  to  boot,  it  seems  in  meet  accordance  with  the 
character  of  the  age  that  it  should  have  been  borne  home  with 
him  in  triumph,  to  serve  a  similar  purpose.  I  w^as  a  good  deal 
struck,  in  one  of  the  old  chapels,  —  a  little  gloomy  place,  filled 
with  antique  regalities  sorely  faded,  and  middle-age  glories 
waxed  dim,  —  by  stumbling,  very  unexpectedly,  on  a  noble 
statue  of  James  Watt.  The  profoundly  contemplative  counte- 
nance —  so  happily  described  by  Arago  as  a  very  personifica- 
tion of  abstract  thought  —  contrasted  strongly  with  the  chivalric 
baubles  and  meaningless  countenances  on  the  surrounding 
tombs.  The  new  and  the  old  governing  forces  —  the  waxing 
xnd  the  waning  powers  —  seemed  appropriately  typified  in 
.hat  little  twilight  chapel. 

My  next  fi'ee  day  —  for,  of  the  four  days  I  remained  in  Loit 
ion.  I  devote  I  each  alternate  one  to  the  British  Museum  -— 


ENGLAND     AND     ITS     PEOPLE.  377 

Bpent  in  wandering  everywhere,  and  looking  at  everything,— 
in  going  up  and  down  die  river  in  steamboals,  and  down  and 
athwart  the  streets  on  omnibuses.  I  took  my  meals  in  all 
sorts  of  odd-looking  places.  I  breakfasted  one  morning  in  an 
exceedingly  poor-looking  coffee-house,  into  which  I  saw  several 
peDple  dressed  in  dirty  moleskin  enter,  just  that  I  might  see 
how  the  people  who  dress  in  dirty  moleskin  live  in  London. 
Some  of  them  made,  I  found,  exceedingly  little  serve  as  a 
meal.  One  thin-faced,  middle-aged  man  brought  in  a  salt 
herring  with  him,  which  he  gave  to  the  waiter  to  get  roasted; 
aid  the  roasted  salt  herring,  with  a  penny's  worth  of  bread  and 
a  penny's  worth  of  coffee,  formed  his  breakfast.  Anothei 
considerably  younger  and  stouter  man,  apparently  not  more  a 
t'avorite  of  fortune,  brought  in  with  him  an  exceedingly  small 
bit  of  meat,  rather  of  the  bloodiest,  stuck  on  a  wooden  pin, 
which  he  also  got  roasted  by  the  v^'aiter,  and  which  he  supple- 
mented with  a  penny's  worth  of  coffee  and  but  a  halfpenny's 
worth  of  bread.  1  too,  that  I  might  experience  for  one  forenoon 
the  sensations  of  the  London  poor,  had  my  penny's  worth  of 
coffee,  and,  as  I  had  neither  meat  nor  herring,  my  three-half- 
fenny  worth  of  bread  ;  but  both  together  formed  a  breakfast 
rather  of  the  lightest,  and  so  I  dined  early.  '  There  is  a  passage 
which  I  had  read  in  Goldsmith's  "  History  of  the  Earth  and 
Animated  Nature  "  many  yoars  before,  which  came  painfully 
into  my  mind  on  this  occasion.  The  poor  poet  had  sad  expe« 
rience  in  his  time  of  the  destitution  of  London  ;  and  when  he 
came  to  discourse  as  a  naturalist  on  some  of  the  sterner  wants 
of  the  species,  the  knowledge  which  he  brought  to  bear  on  the 
subject  was  of  a  deeply  tragic  cast.  "  The  lower  race  of 
animals,"  he  says,  "  when  satisfied,  for  the  instant  moment  are 
perfectly  happy ;  but  it  is  otherwise  with  man.  His  mind 
an  icipates  distress,  and  feels  the  pangs  of  want  even  before 
32* 


378  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS   OF 

they  arrest  him.  Thus,  the  mind  being  continually  harassed 
b}"-  the  situation,  it  at  length  influences  the  constitution,  and 
unfits  it  for  aL  its  functions.  Some  cruel  disorder,  but  nowise 
like  hunger,  seizes  the  unhappy  suflerer;  so  that  almost  all 
those  men  who  have  thus  long  lived  by  chance,  and  whose 
every  day  may  be  considered  as  a  happy  escape  from  famine, 
are  known  at  last  to  die  in  reality  of  a  disorder  caused  by  hun- 
ger, but  which,  in  the  common  language,  is  often  called  a 
broken  heart.  Some  of  these  I  have  known  myself  when  very 
\ittle  able  to  relieve  them  ;  and  I  have  been  told  by  a  very 
active  and  worthy  magistrate,  that  the  number  of  such  as  die 
in  London  for  want  is  much  greater  than  one  would  imagine, 
—  I  think  he  talked  of  two  thousand  in  a  year." 

Rather  a  curious  passage  this  to  occur  in  a  work  of  Natural 
History.  It  haunted  me  a  while  this  morning:  the  weather, 
though  no  longer  wet,  was  exceedingly  gloon)y;  and  I  felt 
depressed  as  I  walked  along  the  muddy  streets,  and  realized, 
with  small  effort,  the  condition  of  the  many  thousands  who, 
without  friends  or  home,  money  or  employment,  have  had  to 
endure  the  mingled  pangs  of  want  and  anxiety  in  London.  I 
remembered,  in  crossing  Westminster  Bridge  to  take  boat  on 
the  Surrey  side,  that  the  poet  Crabbe  walked  on  it  all  night, 
when,  friendless,  in  distress  and  his  last  shilling  expended, 
he  had  dropped,  at  the  door  of  Edmund  Burke,  the  touching 
letter  on  which  his  last  surviving  hope  depended.  The  Thames 
was  turbid  with  the  rains,  —  the  tide  was  out,  —  and  melan- 
choly banks  of  mud,  here  and  there  overtopped  by  thickets  of 
grievously  befouled  sedges,  lay  along  its  sides.  One  straggling 
thicket,  just  opposite  the  gloomy  Temple  Gardens,  —  so  soli- 
tary in  the  middle  of  a  great  city,  —  had  caught  a  tattered 
jacket;  and  the  empty  sleeve,  stretched  against  the  taller 
vedgres   seemed  a  human  arm  raised  above  the  unsolid  ooze 


EN  :LAND    ANU    iTS    PEOPLE.  37\> 

The  scene  a))eared  infinitely  better  suited  than  that  drawn  by 
the  bard  of  Khysdale,  to  remind  one 

*'  Of  mighty  poets  in  their  misery  dead." 

Here  it  was  that  Otway  perished  of  hunger,  —  Butler,  in  great 
neglect,  —  starving  Chatterton,  of  poison.  And  these  were  the 
very  streets  which  Richard  Savage  and  Samuel  Johnson  haa 
so  often  walked  from  midnight  till  morning,  having  at  the  time 
no  roof  under  which  to  shelter.  Pope  summons  up  old  Father 
Thames,  in  his  "Windsor  Forest,"  to  tell  a  silly  enough  story 
how  strangely  difTerent,  how  deeply  tragic,  would  be  the  rea' 
stories  which  Father  Thames  could  tell !  Many  a  proud  heart, 
quenched  in  despair,  has  forever  ceased  to  beat  beneath  his 
waters.  Curiously  enough,  the  first  thing  I  saw,  on  stepping 
ashore  at  London  Bridge,  was  a  placard,  intitriatiiig  that  on  the 
previous  night  a  gentleman  had  fallen  over  one  of  the  bridges, 
and  offering  a  reward  of  twenty  shillings  for  the  recovery  of 
the  body. 

There  was  a  house  in  Upper  Thames-street  which  I  was  de- 
sirous to  see.  I  had  had  no  direct  interest  in  it  for  the  last  five- 
and-twenty  years :  the  kind  relative  who  had  occupied  it  when 
I  was  a  boy  had  long  been  in  his  grave,  —  a  far  distant  one, 
beyond  the  Atlantic;  and  110  Upper  Thames-street  might,  for 
aught  I  knew,  be  now  inhabited  by  a  Jew  or  a  Mahometan. 
But  I  had  got  some  curious  little  books  sent  me  from  it,  at  a 
time  wheij  my  books  were  few  and  highly  valued ;  and  I  could 
not  leave  London  without  first  setting  myself  to  seek  out  the 
place  they  had  come  from.  Like  the  tomb  of  the  lovers,  how- 
ever, which  Tristram  Shandy  journeyed  to  Lyons  to  see,  and 
saw,  instead,  t  erely  the  place  where  the  tomb  had  been,  J 
found  that  old   11)  had  disappeared  :  and  a  tall  modern  er^^r. 


380  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

tion,  tlie  property  of  9,me  great  company,  occupied  its  site.  J 
next  walked  on  through  the  busiest  streets  I  had  ever  seen, 

"  With  carts,  and  cars,  and  coaches,  roaring  all," 

to  Tower  Hill;  and  saw  the  crown  jewels  of  England,  and  the 
English  history  done  in  iron,  —  for  such  is  the  true  character 
of  the  old  armory,  containing  the  mailed  effigies  of  the  English 
kings.  I  saw,  too,  the  cell  in  which  imprisoned  Raleigh  wrote 
his  "  History  of  the  World;"  and  the  dark  narrow  dungeon, 
with  its  rude  stone  arch,  and  its  bare  walls,  painfully  lettered, 
as  with  a  nail-point,  furnished  me  with  a  new  vignette,  by 
which  to  illustrate  in  imagination  some  of  the  most  splendid 
poeiT}.  ever  written  in  prose.  From  the  Tower  I  walked  on  to 
explore  (hat  most  ingenious  work  and  least  fortunate  undertak- 
ing of  modern  times,  —  the  Thames  Tunnel ;  and  found  it  so 
extremely  like  the  ordinary  prints  given  of  it  in  the  "  Penny 
Magazine  "  and  elsewhere,  that  I  could  scarcely  believe  I  had 
not  seen  it  before.  There  were  a  good  many  saunterers,  like 
rnyself,  walking  up  and  down  along  the  pavement,  now  cheap- 
ening some  of  the  toys  exhibited  for  sale  in  the  cross  arches, 
and  now  listening  to  a  Welsh  harper  who  was  filling  one  of  the 
great  circular  shafts  with  sound  ;  but  not  a  single  passenger 
did  I  see.  The  common  English  have  a  peculiar  turn  for  pos- 
sessing themselves  of  almost-impossibiVities  of  the  reel-in-the- 
bottle  class;  and  a  person  who  drew  rather  indifferent  profiles 
in  black  seemed  to  be  driving  a  busy  trade  among  the  visiters. 
The  great  charm  appeared  to  lie  in  the  fact  that  the  outlines 
produced  were  outlines  of  their  very  selves,  taken  under  the 
Thames.  I  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  riding  along  all  the 
greater  streets  on  the  tops  of  omnibuses,  and  in  threading 
some  of  the    nore  characteristic  lanes  on  foot.     Nothing  more 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  38l 

(■•urpriied  me,  in  my  peripatetic  wanderings,  than  to  find,  when 
I  had  now  and  then  occasion  to  inquire  my  way,  that  the  Lon- 
doners do  not  know  London.  Ths  monster  city  of  which  they 
are  so  proud  seems,  like  other  very  great  ones  of  the  earth,  to 
have  got  beyond  the  familiarities  of  intimate  acquaintance  with 
even  the  men  who  respect  it  most. 

I  learned  not  to  wonder,  as  I  walked  along  the  endless 
labyrinth  of  streets,  and  saw  there  was  no  such  thing  for  a 
pedestrian  as  getting  fairly  into  the  country,  that  the  literature 
of  London  —  its  purely  indigenous  literature  —  should  be  of 
30  rural  a  character.  The  mere  wayside  beauties  of  nature, — 
^•reen  trees,  and  fresh  grass,  and  soft  mossy  hillocks  sprinkled 
over  with  liarebells  and  daisies,  and  hawthorn  bushes  gray  in 
blossom,  and  slender  woodland  streamlets,  with  yellow  prim- 
roses looking  down  upon  them  from  their  banks,  —  things  com- 
mon and  of  little  mark  to  at  least  the  ordinary  men  that  live 
among  them,  —  must  be  redolent  of  poetry  to  even  the  ordinary 
Londoner,  who,  removed  far  from  their  real  presence,  contem- 
plates them  in  idea  through  an  atmosphere  of  intense  desire. 
There  are  not  a  few  silly  things  in  what  has  been  termed  the 
Cockney  school  of  poetry :  in  no  other  school  does  a  teasing 
obscurity  hover  so  incessantly  on  the  edge  of  no  meaning,  or  is 
the  reader  so  much  in  danger  of  embracing,  like  one  of  the  old 
mythologic  heroes,  a  cloud  for  a  goddess.  But  I  can  scarce 
join  in  the  laugh  raised  against  its  incessant  "babble  about 
green  fields,"  or  marvel  that,  in  its  ceaseless  talk  of  flowers,  its 
language  should  so  nearly  resemble  that  of  Turkish  love-h  Iters 
composed  of  nosegays.  Its  style  is  eminently  true  to  London 
nature,—  which,  of  course,  is  simply  human  nature  in  London, 
—  in  the  ardent  desire  w'r  ich  it  breathes  for  rural  quiet,  and 
the  green  sunshiny  solitude  of  the  country.  "Shapes  of 
beauty  "  accord'ng  to  one  of  its  masters,  —  poor  ?Ceats. — 


JS'4  ?IRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

"  Move  away  the  pall 
From  the  tired  spirit." 

A.na  thtr  1  e  tells  us  what  some  of  those  shapes  of  bet  uty  are,- 

*'  Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep  ;  and  such  are  daffodils 
With  tlie  green  world  tliey  live  in  ;  and  clear  rills, 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season  ;  the  mid-forest  brake, 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms." 

Keats,  the  apprentice  of  a  London  surgeon,  was  an  overtoiled 
young  man  in  delicate  health,  cooped  up  by  his  employment 
the  whole  week  round  for  years  together;  and  in  this  charac- 
teristic passage,  —  puerile  enough,  it  must  be  confessed,  and 
yet  poetical  too,  —  we  have  the  genuine  e.\:pression  of  the  true 
city  calenture  under  which  he  languished.  But  perhaps  no- 
where in  the  compass  of  English  poetry  is  there  a  more  truth- 
ful exhibition  of  the  affection  than  in  Wordsworth's  picture  of 
the  hapless  town  girl,  poor  Susan.  She  is  in  the  heart  of  the 
city,  a  thoughtless  straggler  along  the  busy  streets,  when  a 
sudden  burst  of  song  from  an  encaged  thrush  hung  against  th*' 
wall  touches  the  deeply-seated  feeling,  and  transports  her  fai 
and  awiy  into  the  quiet  country,  where  her  days  of  innoccncj 
had  bee  :i  spent. 

•*  What  ails  her  ?     She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapor  through  Lotlibury  glide. 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 
Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  vale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail  • 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  only  one  dwelling  ou  earth  that  she  loves." 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  3S3 

It  is  an  interesting-  enough  fact  that  from  the  existence  of 
this  strong  appetite  for  the  rural  intensified  into  poetry  bi 
those  circumstances  which  render  all  attempts  at  its  gratifica 
tion  mere  tantalizing  snatches,  that  whet  rather  than  satisfy 
the  influence  of  great  cities  on  the  literatuie  of  a  countr) 
should  be,  not  to  enhance  the  artificia. ,  but  to  impart  to  tht 
natural  prominence  and  value.  The  "Farmer's  Boy"  of 
Bloomfield  was  written  in  a  garret  in  the  midst  of  London  ; 
and  nowhere  perhaps  in  the  empire  has  it  been  read  with  a 
deeper  relish  than  by  the  pale  country-sick  artisans  and  clerks 
of  the  neighboring  close  courts  and  blind  alleys.  Nowhere 
have  Thomson,  Cowper,  and  Crabbe,  with  the  poets  of  the 
Lake  School,  given  a  larger  amount  of  pleasure  than  in  Lon- 
don;  and  when  London  at  length  came  to  produce  a  school  of 
poetry  exclusively  its  own,  it  proved  one  of  the  graver  faults  of 
its  productions,  that  they  were  too  incessantly  descriptive,  and 
too  exclusively  rural. 

I  spent,  as  I  have  said,  two  days  at  the  British  Museum,  and 
wished  I  could  have  spent  ten.  And  yet  the  ten,  by  extending 
my  index  acquaintance  with  the  whole,  would  have  left  me 
many  more  unsettled  points  to  brood  over  than  the  two.  It  is 
an  astonishing  collection  ;  and  very  astonishing  is  the  historj' 
of  creation  and  the  human  family  \vhich  it  forms.  Such,  it 
strikes  me,  is  the  proper  view  in  which  to  regard  it  it  is  a 
great,  many-chaptered  work  of  authentic  history,  beginning 
with  the  consecutive  creations,  —  dwelling  at  g^eat  length 
on  the  existing  one,  —  taking  up  and  pursuing  through  many 
sections  the  master  production,  Man,  —  exhibiting  in  the  Egyp- 
tian section,  not  only  what  he  did,  but  what  he  was, —  illus- 
trating in  the  Grecian  and  Roman  sections  tlie  perfectibility 
of  his  conceptions  in  all  that  relates  to  external  form,  —  indi- 
cating in  the  middle-age  section  a  refolding  of  his  previously 


384  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

developed  powers,  as  if  they  had  shrunk  under  some  chill  and 
wintry  influence,  —  exhibiting  in  the  concluding  section  a 
broader  and  more  general  blow  of  sentiment  and  faculty  than 
that  of  his  earlier  spring-time,  —  nay,  demonstrating  the  fact  of 
a  more  confirmed  maturity,  in  the  very  existence  and  arrange- 
ment of  such  a  many-volumed  History  of  the  Earth  and  its 
productions  as  this  great  collection  constitutes.  I  found,  in  the 
geological  department,  —  splendid,  as  an  accumulation  of  noble 
specimens,  beyond  my  utmost  conception,  —  that  much  still 
remains  to  be  done  in  the  way  of  arrangement,  —  a  very  great 
deal  even  in  the  way  of  further  addition.  The  work  of  impart- 
ing order  to  the  whole,  though  in  good  hands,  seems  barely 
begun ;  and  years  must  elapse  ere  it  can  be  completed  with 
reference  to  even  the  present  stage  of  geologic  knowledge. 
But  how  very  wonderful  will  be  the  record  which  it  will  then 
form  of  those  earlier  periods  of  our  planet,  —  its  ages  of  infancy, 
childhood,  and  immature  youth,  —  which  elapsed  ere  its  con- 
nection with  the  moral  and  the  responsible  began !  From  the 
Graptolite  of  the  Grauwacke  slate,  to  the  fossil  human  skeleton 
of  Gimdaloupe,  what  a  strange  list  of  births  and  deaths  —  of 
the  production  and  extinction  of  races  —  will  it  not  exhibit' 
Even  in  its  present  half-arranged  condition,  I  found  the  gen 
eral  progressive  history  of  the  animal  kingdom  strikingly  indi- 
cated. In  the  most  ancient  section,  —  that  of  the  Silurian 
system,  —  there  are  corals,  molluscs,  crustacea.  In  the  Old 
Red,  —  for  the  fish  of  the  Upper  Ludlow  rock  are  wanting,  — 
the  vertebrae  begin.  By  the  way,  I  found  that  almost  all  the 
older  ichthyolites  in  this  section  of  the  Museum  had  been  of 
my  own  gathering,  —  specimens  I  had  laid  open  on  the  shores 
of  the  Cromarty  Frith  some  ten  or  twelve  years  ago.  Upwards 
through  the  Coal  Measures  I  saw  nothing  higher  than  the  rep- 
tile  fish.     With  the  Lias  comes  a  splendid  array  of  the  extinct 


I 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  38o 

reptiles.  The  Museum  contains  periiaps  the  fir  est  collection 
of  these  in  the  world.  The  earlier  Tertiary  introduces  us  to 
the  strange  mammals  of  the  Paris  Basin,  —  the  same  system, 
in  its  second  stage,  to  the  Dinotherium  of  Darmstadt  and  the 
Megatherium  of  Buenos  Ayres.  A  still  later  period  brings  before 
us  the  great  elephantine  family,  once  so  widely  distributed  ovei 
the  globe  :  we  arrive  at  a  monstrous  skeleton,  entire  from  head 
to  heel:  'tis  that  of  the  gigantic  mastodon  of  North  America,  — 
a  creature  that  may  have  been  contemporary  with  the  earlier 
hunter  tribes  of  the  New  World  ;  and  just  beside  it,  last  in  the 
long  series,  we  find  the  human  skeleton  of  Guadaloupe.  Mys- 
terious frame-work  of  bone  locked  up  in  the  solid  marble, — 
unwonted  prisoner  of  the  rock  !  — an  irresistible  voice  shall  yet 
call  thee  from  out  the  stony  matrix.  The  other  organisms,  thy 
partners  in  the  show,  are  incarcerated  in  the  lime  forever, — 
thou  but  for  a  term.  How  strangely  has  the  destiny  of  the 
race  to  which  thou  belongest  re-stamped  with  new  meanings 
the  old  phenomena  of  creation  !  I  marked,  as  I  passed  along, 
the  prints  of  numerous  rain-drops  indented  in  a  slab  of  sand- 
stone. And  the  entire  record,  from  the  earliest  to  the  latest 
times,  is  a  record  of  death.  When  that  rain-shower  descended, 
myriads  of  ages  ago,  at  the  close  of  the  Palaeozoic  period,  the 
cloud,  just  where  it  fronted  the  sun,  must  have  exhibited  it3 
bow  of  many  colors ;  and  then,  as  now,  nature,  made  vital  in 
the  inferior  animals,  would  have  clung  to  life  with  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  and  shrunk  with  dismay  and  terror  from 
the  approach  of  death.  But  the  prismatic  bow  stfided  across 
the  gloom,  in  blind  obedience  to  a  mere  optical  .aw,  bearing 
inscribed  on  its  gorgeous  arch  no  occult  meaning;  and  death, 
whether  by  violence  or  decay,  formed  in  the  general  economy 
but  a  clearing  process,  through  which  the  fundamental  law  ol 
increase  found  space  to  operate.  But  when  thou  wert  living 
33 


386  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

prisoner  of  the  marble,  haply  as  an  Indian  wife  and  mother, 
ages  ere  the  keel  of  Columbus  had  disturbed  the  waves  of  the 
Atlantic,  the  high  standing  of  thy  species  had  imparted  new 
meanings  to  death  and  the  rainbow.  The  prismatic  arch  had 
hecome  the  bow  of  the  covenant,  and  death  a  great  sign  of  the 
liibending  justice  and  purity  of  the  Creator,  and  of  the  aber- 
ration and  fall  of  the  living  soul,  formtd  in  the  Creator's  own 
image,  —  reasoning,  responsible  man. 

Of  those  portions  of  the  Museum  which  illustrate  the  history 
of  the  human  mind  in  that  of  the  arts,  I  was  most  impressed 
by  the  Egyptian  section.  The  utensils  which  it  exhibits  that 
associate  with  the  old  domesticities  of  the  Egyptians  —  the 
little  household  implements  which  had  ministered  to  the  lesser 
comforts  of  the  subjects  of  the  Pharaohs  —  seem  really  more 
curious,  —  at  any  rate,  more  strange  in  their  familiaritj'^,  —  than 
those  exquisite  productions  of  genius,  the  Laocoons,  and  Apollo 
Belvideres,  and  Venus  de  Medicis,  and  Phidian  Jupiters,  and 
Elgin  marbles,  which  the  Greek  and  Roman  sections  exhibit. 
We  have  served  ourselves  heir  to  what  the  genius  of  the 
ancient  nations  has  produced,  —  to  their  architecture,  their 
sculpture,  their  literature  ;  our  conceptions  piece  on  to  theirs 
with  so  visible  a  dependency,  that  we  can  scarce  imagine  what 
they  would  have  been  without  them.  We  have  been  running 
new  metal  into  our  castings,  artistic  and  intellectual ;  but  it  is 
the  ancients  who,  in  most  cases,  have  furnished  the  moulds. 
And  so,  though  the  human  mind  walks  in  an  often-returning 
circle  of  thought  and  invention,  and  we  might  very  possibly 
have  struck  out  for  ourselves  not  a  few  of  the  Grecian  ideas, 
even  had  they  all  perished  during  the  middle  ages,  —  just  as 
Shakspeare  struck  out  for  himself  not  a  little  of  the  classical 
thinking  and  imagery,  —  we  are  at  least  in  doubt  regarding  th« 
extent  to  which  this  would  have  taken  place.      We  know  no' 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE  387 

whether  our  chance  reproduction  of  Grecian  idea  wou  d  have 
been  such  a  one  as  the  reproduction  of  Ejryptian  statuary 
exhibited  in  the  aboriginal  Mexican  sculptures,  or  the  repro- 
duction of  Runic  tracery  palpable  in  the  Polynesian  carvings, 
—  or  whether  our  inventions  might  not  have  expatiated,  without 
obvious  reproduction  at  all,  in  types  indigenously  Gothic.  As 
heirs  of  the  intellectual  weaith  of  the  ancients,  and  inheritors 
of  the  treasures  which  their  efforts  accumulated,  we  know  not 
what  sort  of  fortunes  we  would  have  carved  out  for  ourselves, 
had  we  been  left  to  our  own  unassisted  exertions.  But  we 
surely  did  not  fall  heir  to  the  domestic  inventions  of  the  Egyp- 
tians. Their  cooks  did  not  teach  ours  how  to  truss  fowls;  nor 
did  their  bakers  show  ours  how  to  ferment  their  dough  or  mould 
their  loaves  ;  nor  could  we  have  learned  from  them  a  hundred 
other  household  arts,  of  which  we  find  both  the  existence  and 
the  mode  of  existence  indicated  by  the  antiquities  of  this  sec- 
tion ;  and  yet,  the  same  faculty  of  invention  which  they  pos- 
sessed, tied  down  in  our  as  in  their  case  by  the  wants  of  a 
common  nature  to  expatiate  in  the  same  narrow  circle  of  neces- 
sity, has  reproduced  them  all.  Invention  in  this  case  has  been 
but  restoration  ;  and  w^e  find  that,  in  the  broad  sense  of  the 
Preacher,  it  has  given  us  nothing  new.  What  most  impressed 
me,  however,  were  the  Egyptians  themselves,  —  the  men  of 
three  thousand  years  ago,  still  existing  entire  in  their  frame- 
work of  bone,  muscle,  and  sinew.  It  struck  me  as  a  very 
wonderful  truth,  in  the  way  in  which  truths  great  in  them- 
seh'es,  but  commonplaced  by  their  familiarity,  do  sometimes 
strike,  that  the  living  souls  should  still  exist  which  had  once 
animated  these  withered  and  desiccated  bodies;  and  that  in 
their  separate  state  they  had  an  interest  in  the  bodies  still. 
This  much,  amid  all  their  darkness,  even  the  old  Egyptian? 
knew;    and    this   we  —  save   where    the   vitalities    of   levela 


388  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

tion  inlluence  —  seem  to  be  fast  unlearning.  It  does  appeal 
strange,  that  men  ingenious  enough  to  philosophize  on  the 
phenomena  of  the  parental  relation,  on  the  mysterious  connec- 
tion of  parent  and  child,  its  palpable  adaptation  to  the  feelings 
of  the  human  heart,  and  its  vast  influence  on  the  destinies  of 
the  species,  should  yet  find  in  the  doctrine  of  the  resurrection 
out  a  mere  target  against  which  to  shoot  their  puny  material- 
isms. It  does  not  seem  unworthy  of  the  All  Wise,  by  whom 
the  human  heart  was  moulded  and  the  parental  relation  de- 
signed, that  the  immature  "boy"  of  the  present  state  of  exist- 
ence should  be  "  father  to  the  man  "  in  the  next ;  and  that,  as 
spirit  shall  be  identical  with  spirit,  —  the  responsible  agent  with 
the  panel  at  the  bar,  —  so  body  shall  be  derived  from  body,  and 
the  old  onrness  of  the  individual  be  thus  rendered  complete, 

*  •  Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 


ENbi^AND    ANU    ITS    PKOPLE.  "       380 


CHAPTER     XIX. 

Harro  /on- the-Hill.  —  Descent  through  the  Formations  from  the  Tertiary 
to  llicCodl  Measures.  — Journey  of  a  Hundred  and  Twenty  MWcs  Aorlli 
wards  i  leutical,  geologically,  with  a  journey  of  a  Mile  and  a  Quarter 
Downicards.  —  English  very  unlike  Scottish  Landscape  in  its  Geologic 
Framework.  —  Birmingham  Fair.  —  Credulity  of  the  Rural  English; 
striking  Contrast  which  they  furnish,  in  this  Respect,  to  their  Country- 
men of  the  Knowing  Type.  —  The  English  Grades  of  Intellectual  Char- 
acter of  Immense  Range  ;  more  in  Extremes  than  those  of  the  Scotch.  — 
Front  Rank  of  British  Intellect  in  which  there  stands  no  Scotchman  ; 
protiahie  Cause.  — A  Class  of  English,  on  the  other  Hand,  greatly  lower 
than  the  Scotch  ;  naturally  less  Curious  ;  acquire,  in  Consequence,  less 
of  the  Developing  Paiiulum.  —  The  main  Cause  of  the  Diflerence  to  he 
found,  however,  in  the  very  dissimilar  Religious  Character  of  the  two 
Countries.  —  The  Scot  naturally  less  independent  than  the  Englishman  ; 
strengthened,  however,  where  his  Character  most  needs  Strengl.i,  hy 
nis  Religion.  —  The  Independence  of  the  Englishman  suhjected  at  the 
present  Tin;e  to  two  distinct  Adverse  Influences,  —  the  Modern  Poor  Law 
and  iheTenaul-al-will  System.  — Walsall.  — Liverpool.  —  Sort  of  Lodg- 
ing-houses in  which  one  is  sure  to  meet  many  Dissenters. 

Ox  the  fifth  morninir  I  quitted  London  on  my  way  north, 
without  having  once  seen  the  sun  shine  on  the  city  or  itL 
environs.  But  the  weather  at  length  cleared  up ;  and  as  tlie 
train  passed  Harrow-on-thc-Hili,  the  picturesque  buildings  on 
the  acclivity,  as  they  looked  out  in  the  sunshine,  nest-like, 
from  amid  their  woods  just  touched  with  yellow,  made  a  pic- 
ture not  unworthy  of  those  classic  recollections  with  which  the 
place  is  so  peculiarly  associated. 

The  railway,  though  its  sides  are  getting  fast  covered  over 
with  grass  and  debris,  still  i"urnishes  a  tolerably  adequate  sec 
Uon  of  the  geology  of  this  part  of  England.  Wo  pass,  at  an 
33* 


d90  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

early  stage  of  our  journey,  through  the  London  Clay,  and  theu 
see  rising  from  under  it  the  Chalk,  —  the  first  representative  of 
an  entirely  different  state  of  things  from  that  which  obtained 
in  the  Tertiary,  and  the  latest  written  record  of  that  Secondary 
d\  nasty  at  whose  terminal  line,  if  we  except  one  or  two  doubt- 
fu.  shells,  on  which  it  is  scarce  safe  to  decide,  all  that  had 
previously  existed  ceased  to  exist  forever.  The  lower  mem 
bers  of  the  Cretaceous  group  are  formed  of  materials  of  too 
yielding  a  nature  to  be  indicated  in  the  section  ;  but  the  Oolite, 
on  which  they  rest,  is  well  marked  ;  and  we  see  its  strata  rising 
from  beneath,  as  we  pass  on  to  lower  and  yet  lower  depths,  till 
at  length  we  reach  the  Lias,  its  base,  and  then  enter  on  the 
Upper  New  Red  Sandstone.  Deeper  and  yet  deeper  strata 
emerge  ;  and  at  the  commencement  of  the  Lower  New  Red 
we  reach  another  great  terminal  line,  where  the  Secondary 
dynasty  ends,  and  the  Palaeozoic  begins.  We  still  pass  down- 
wards; encounter  at  Walsall  a  misplaced  patch  of  Silurian, — 
a  page  transferred  from  the  earlier  leaves  of  the  volume,  and 
stuck  into  a  middle  chapter ;  and  then  enter  on  the  Coal  Meas- 
ures, —  the  extremest  depth  to  which  we  penetrate,  in  regular 
sequence,  on  this  line.  Our  journey  northwards  from  London 
to  Wolverhampton  has  been  also  a  journey  downwards  along 
the  geologic  scale ;  but  while  we  have  travelled  nortliward& 
along  the  surface  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  miles,  we  have 
travelled  downwards  into  the  earth's  crust  not  more  than  a  mile 
dnd  a  quarter.  Our  descent  has  been  exceedingly  slow,  for 
the  strata  have  lain  at  very  low  angles.  And  hence  the  flat 
character  of  the  country,  so  essentially  different  from  that  of 
Scotland.  The  few  hills  which  we  pass,  —  if  hills  they  may 
be  termed,  —  mere  flat  ridges,  that  stretch,  rib-like,  athwart  the 
landscape, —  are,  in  most  cases,  but  harder  beds  of  rock,  inter- 
.•alat(  d  with  th"  softer  ones,  and  that,  relieved  by  the  denuding 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  301 

ag"?nc  3S,  stand  up  in  bolder  prominence  over  the  general  level 
Not  a  1  eruptive  rock  appears  in  the  entire  line  on  to  Walsall. 
How  v^ry  different  the  framework  of  Scottish  landscape,  as 
exhibited  in  the  section  laid  bare  by  the  Edinburgh  and  Glas. 
gow  Railway !  There,  almost  every  few  hundred  yards  in  the 
line  brings  the  traveller  to  a  trap-rock,  ag-ainst  which  he  finds 
the  strata  tilted  at  every  possible  angle  of  elevation.  Here  the 
beds  go  up,  there  they  go  down ;  in  this  eminence  they  are 
elevated,  saddle-like,  on  the  back  of  some  vast  eruptive  mass  , 
in  yonder  hill,  overflown  by  it.  The  country  around  exists  aa 
a  tumultuous  sea,  raised  into  tempest  of  old  by  the  fiery  ground- 
swell  from  below;  while  on  the  skirts  of  the  prospect  there 
stand  up  eminences  of  loftier  altitude,  characteristically  marked 
in  profile  by  their  terrace-like  precipices,  that  rise  over  each 
other  step  by  step,  —  their  trap-stairs^  of  trappean  rock,  —  for 
to  this  scenic  peculiarity  the  volcanic  rocks  owe  their  generic 
name, 

1  found  Birmingham  amid  the  bustle  of  its  annual  fair,  and 
much  bent  on  gaycty  and  sight-seeing.  There  were  double 
rows  of  booths  along  the  streets,  a  full  half-mile  in  length,  — 
gingerbread  booths,  and  carraway  and  barley-sugar  booths,  and 
nut  and  apple  booths,  and  booths  rich  in  halfpenny  dolls  and 
penny  trumpets,  and  booths  not  particularly  rich  in  anything 
that  seemed  to  have  been  run  up  on  speculation.  There  were 
"hows,  too,  of  every  possible  variety  of  attraction,  —  shows  oi 
fat  boys,  and  large  ladies,  and  little  men,  and  great  serpents 
and  wise  ponies;  and  shows  of  British  disaster  in  India,  and 
Df  British  successes  in  China  ;  madcap-minded  merry-andrews, 
who  lived  on  their  wits,  nor  wished  for  more  ;  agile  tumblers, 
glittering  in  tinsel ;  swings,  revolvers,  and  roundabouts  ;  and 
old  original   Punch,  in  a'l  his  glory.     But  what  formed  by  far 

•  Traji-stairs     Scotice,  a  stair  of  one  fl'glit. 


392  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

the  best  part  of  tne  exhibition  were  the  round,  ruddy,  unthink 
ing  fac«sof  the  country-bred  English,  that  had  poured  into 
town,  to  stare,  wonder,  purchase,  and  be  happy.  It  was  worth 
while  paying  one's  penny  for  a  sight  of  the  fat  boys  and  the 
little  men,  just  to  see  the  eager  avidity  with  which  they  were 
seen,  and  the  total  want  of  suspicion  with  which  all  that  was 
told  regarding  them  wa^5  received.  The  countryAvoman  who, 
on  seeing  a  negro  for  the  first  time,  deemed  him  the  painted 
monster  of  a  show,  and  remarked  that  "  mony  was  the  way 
tried  to  wyle  awa'  the  penny,"  betrayed  her  country  not  less  by 
her  suspicion  than  by  her  tongue.  An  Englishwoman  of  the 
true  rural  type  would  have  fallen  into  the  opposite  mistake,  of 
deeming  some  painted  monster  a  reality.  Judging,  however, 
from  what  the  Birmingham  fair  exhibited,  I  am  inclined  to 
hold  that  the  prepondetance  of  enjoyment  lies  on  the  more 
credulous  side.  I  never  yet  encountered  a  better-pleased 
people  :  the  very  spirit  of  the  fair  seemed  embodied  in  the 
exclamation  of  a  pretty  little  girl  from  the  country,  whom  I  saw 
clap  her  hands  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  a  street  where  the 
prospect  first  burst  upon  her,  and  shriek  out,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
delight,  "  0,  what  lots  of —  lots  of  shows  !  "  And  yet,  certainly, 
the  English  character  does  lie  very  much  in  extremes.  Among 
the  unthinking,  unsuspicious,  blue-eyed,  fair-complexioned,  hon- 
est Saxons  that  crowded  the  streets,  I  could  here  and  there 
detect,  in  gangs  and  pairs,  some  of  the  most  disagreeably  smart- 
looking  men  I  almost  ever  saw,  —  men  light  of  finger  and 
shar[)  of  wit,  —  full  of  all  manner  of  contrivance,  and  devoid 
of  all  sort  of  moral  principle. 

Nothing  in  the  English  character  so  strikingly  impressed  me 
as  its  immense  extent  of  range  across  the  intellectual  scale.  It 
resemliles  those  musical  instruments  of  great  compass,  such  as 
the  p'liAoforte  ^nd  the  harpsichord,  that  sweep  over  the  ent're 


ENGLANI     AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  393 

g'amut,  from  t.ie  lowest  note  to  the  highest;  whereas  the  intel« 
lectual  chart  cter  of  the  Scotch,  like  instruments  of  a  narrower 
range,  sujh  as  the  harp  and  the  violin,  lies  more  in  the  middle 
of  the  scale.  By  at  least  one  degree  it  does  not  rise  so  high  ; 
by  several  degrees  it  does  not  sink  so  low.  There  is  an  order 
of  English  mind  to  which  Scotland  has  not  attained  :  our  first 
men  stand  in  the  second  rank,  not  a  foot-breadth  behind  the 
foremost  of  England's  second-rank  men  ;  but  there  is  a  front 
rank  of  British  intellect  in  which  there  stands  no  Scotchman 
Like  that  class  of  the  mighty  men  of  David,  to  which  Abishai 
and  Benaiah  belonged,  —  great  captains,  who  went  down  into 
pits  in  the  time  of  snow  and  slew  lions,  or  "who  lifted  up  the 
spear  against  three  hundred  men  at  once,  and  prevailed," 
they  attain  not,  with  all  their  greatness,  to  the  might  of  the 
first  class.  Scotland  has  produced  no  Shakspeare  ;  —  Burns 
and  Sir  Walter  Scott  united  would  fall  short  of  the  stature  of 
the  giant  of  Avon.  Of  Milton  we  have  not  even  a  representa- 
tive. A  Scotch  poet  has  been  injudiciously  named  as  not 
greatly  inferior ;  but  I  shall  not  do  wrong  to  the  memory  of  an 
ingenious  young  man,  cut  pfl[  just  as  he  had  mastered  his 
powers,  by  naming  him  again  in  a  comiection  so  perilous.  He 
at  least  was  guiltless  of  the  comparison ;  and  it  would  be  cruel 
to  involve  him  in  the  ridicule  which  it  is  suited  to  excite. 
Bacon  is  as  exclusively  unique  as  Milton,  and  as  exclusively 
English  ;  and  though  the  grandfather  of  Newton  was  a  Scotch- 
man, we  have  certainly  no  Scotch  Sir  Isa.xc.  I  question,  in- 
deed, whether  any  Scotchman  attains  to  the  powers  of  Locke: 
there  is  as  much  solid  thinking  in  the  "  Essay  on  the  Human 
Understanding,"  greatly  as  it  has  become  the  fashion  of  the 
nge  to  c.epreciate  it,  and  notwithstanding  its  fundamental  error, 
as  in  ths  works  of  all  our  Scotch  mefapiiysicians  put  together. 
It  is  however,  i  curious  fact,  and  worthy,  certainly,  of  careful 


594  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

examination  as  bearing  on  the  question  of  development  purely 
thruugh  the  force  of  circumstances,  that  all  the  very  great  men 
of  England  —  all  its  first-class  men  —  belong  to  ages  during 
which  the  grinding  persecutions  of  the  Stuarts  repressed  Scot- 
tish  energy,  and  crushed  the  opening  mind  of  the  country; 
and  that  no  sooner  was  the  weight  removed,  like  a  pavement- 
slab  from  over  a  flower-bed,  than  straightway  Scottish  intellect 
sprung  up,  and  attained  to  the  utmost  height  to  which  English 
intellect  was  rising  at  the  time.  The  English  philosophers 
and  literati  of  the  eighteenth  century  were  of  a  greatly  lower 
stature  than  the  Miltons  and  Shakspeares,  Bacons  and  New- 
tons,  'I'f  the  two  previous  centuries  :  they  were  second-class 
men,  —  the  tallest,  however,  of  their  age  anywhere ;  and 
among  these  the  men  of  Scotland  take  no  subordinate  place. 
Though  absent  from  the  competition  in  the  previous  century, 
through  the  operation  of  causes  palpable  in  the  history  of  the 
time,  we  fmd  them  quite  up  to  the  mark  of  the  age  in  which 
they  appear.  No  English  philosopher  for  the  last  hundred  and 
fifty  years  produced  a  greater  revolution  in  human  affairs  than 
Adam  Smith,  or  exerted  a  more  powerful  influence  on  opmion 
than  David  Hume,  or  did  more  to  change  the  face  of  the  me- 
chanical world  than  James  Watt.  The  "  History  of  England  " 
produced  by  a  Scotchman  is  still  emphatically  the  "  English 
History ;  "  nor,  with  all  its  defects,  is  it  likely  to  be  soon  super- 
seded. Robertson,  if  inferior  in  the  untaught  felicities  of  nar- 
ration to  his  illustrious  countryman,  is  at  least  inferior  to  none 
of  his  English  contemporaries.  The  prose  fictions  of  Smollett 
have  kept  their  ground  quite  as  well  as  those  of  Fielding,  and 
better  than  those  of  Richardson.  Nor  does  England  during 
the  centurr  exhibit  higher  manifestations  of  the  poetic  spirit 
than  those  exhibited  by  Thomson  and  by  Burns.  To  use  a 
aomely  but  exoressive  Scoticism,  Scotland  seems  to  have  los» 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PE  JPLE.  '3^5 

her  bairn-time  of  the  giants;  but  in  the  after  air  i-tivu:  of 
meiely  tall  men,  her  children  were  quite  as  tall  as  aii}-  of  thcii 
contemporaries. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  however,  it  is  unquestionable  that  Eng- 
land has  produced  an  order  of  intellect  to  which  Scotland  has 
not  attained  ;  and  it  does  strike  as  at  least  curious,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  fact  that  the  English,  notwithstanding,  should  as 
a  people  stand  on  a  lower  intellectual  level  than  the  Scotch. 
[  have  had  better  opportunities  of  knowing  the  common  people 
of  Scotland  than  most  men  ;  I  have  lived  among  them  for  the 
greater  part  of  my  life,  and  1  belong  to  them ;  and  when  in 
England,  I  made  it  my  business  to  see  as  much  as  possible  of 
the  connnon  English  people.  I  conversed  with  them  south 
and  north,  and  found  them  extremely  ready  —  for,  as  I  have 
already  had  occasion  to  remark,  they  are  much  franker  than 
the  Scotch  —  to  exhibit  themselves  unbidden.  And  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  affnming,  that  their  minds  lie  much  more  pro- 
foundly asleep  than  those  of  the  common  people  of  Scotland. 
We  have  no  class  north  of  the  Tweed  that  corresponds  with 
the  class  of  ruddy,  round-faced,  vacant  English,  so  abundant 
in  the  rural  districts,  and  whose  very  physiognomy,  derived 
during  the  course  of  centuries  from  untaught  ancestors,  indi- 
cates intellect  yet  unawakened.  The  reflective  habits  of  the 
Scottish  people  have  set  their  stamp  on  the  r.ational  counte* 
nance.  What  strikes  the  Scotch  traveller  in  this  unawakened 
class  of  the  English,  is  their  want  of  curiosity  regarding  (he 
unexciting  and  the  unexaggerated,  —  things  so  much  on  the 
ordinary  level  as  to  be  neither  prodigies  nor  shows.  Let  him 
travel  into  the  rural  districts  of  the  Scotch  Highlands,  and  he, 
will  find  the  inquisitive  element  all  in  a  state  of  ferment 
regarding  himself.  He  finds  every  H  ghlander  he  meets  adroit 
of  fence,  in  planting  npon  him  as  many  queries  as  can  fxjssiblv 


396  FIRST    IMPKESSIONS    OF 

be  thrust  in,  and  in  warding  off  every  query  directed  against 
himself.  The  wayside  colloquy  resolves  itself  into  a  sort  of 
sword-and-buckler  match:  and  he  must  be  tolerably  cunning  in 
thrusting  and  warding  who  proves  an  overmatch  for  the  High- 
lander.*    And  in  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland,  though  in  perhaps 

*  One  of  the  most  amusing  sketches  of  this  sort  of  sword-and-buckler 
play  which  I  have  anywhere  seen  may  be  found  in  Macculloch's  "  Travels 
in  the  Western  and  Northern  Highlands."  Were  I  desirous  to  get  up  a 
counter  sketch  equally  characteristic  of  the  incurious  communicative  turn 
of  the  English,  I  would  choose  as  my  subject  a  conversation —  if  conver- 
sation that  could  be  called  in  which  the  speaking  was  all  on  the  one  side 
—  into  which  I  entered  with  an  Englishman  near  Stourbridge.  He  gave 
•me  first  his  own  history,  and  then  his  father  and  mother's  history,  with 
occasional  episodes  illustrative  of  the  condition  and  pi'ospects  of  his  three 
aunts  and  his  two  uncles,  and  wound  up  the  whole  by  a  detail  of  certain 
love  passages  in  the  biography  of  his  brother,  who  was  pledged  to  a  solid 
Scotchwoman,  Vjut  who  had  resolved  not  to  get  married  until  his  sweet- 
heart and  himself,  who  were  both  in  service,  should  have  saved  a  little 
more  money.  And  all  that  the  narrator  knew  of  me,  in  turn,  or  wished 
to  know,  was  simply  that  I  Avas  a  Scot,  and  a  good  listener.  Maccul- 
loch's sketch,  however,  of  the  inquisitive  Highlander,  would  have  decid- 
edly the  .advantage  over  any  sketch  of  mine  of  the  incurious  Englishman  : 
his  dialogue  is  smart,  compact,  and  amusing,  though  perhaps  a  little 
dashed  with  caricature  ;  whereas  the  Englishman's  narratives  were  long, 
prosy,  and  dull.  The  scene  of  the  dialogue  furnished  by  the  traveller  is 
laid  in  Glen  Ledmack,  where  he  meets  a  snutfy-iooking  native  cutting 
grass  with  a  pocket-knife,  and  asks, —  "How  tar  is  it  to  Killin  ?  " — 
"It's  a  fine  day."  —  "Ay,  it's  a  fine  day  for  your  hay."  —  "Ah! 
there  's  no  muckle  hay  ;  this  is  an  unco  cauld  glen."  —  "I  suppose  this 
is  the  road  to  Killin  ?  "  (trying  him  on  another  tack.)  — "That's  an 
unco  fiit  beast  o'  yours."  —  "  Yes  ;  she  is  much  too  fat  ;  she  is  just  from 
grass."  —  "  Ah  !  it 's  a  mere,  I  see  ;  it 's  a  gude  beast  to  gang,  I'se  war- 
ran'  you."  —  "  Yes,  yes  ;  it 's  a  very  good  pony."  — "  I  soiled  just  sic 
another  at  Doune  fair,  five  years  by-past :  I  warran'  ye  she  's  a  High- 
land-bred beast  ?  "  —  "I  don't  know  ,  I  bought  her  in  Edinburgh."  — 
"  A-weel,  a-weel,  mony  sic  like  gangs  to  the  Edinburgh  market  trae  the 
highlands."  —  "  Very  likely  ;  she  seems  to  have  Highland  blood  in  her." 
— "  Ay,  ay  :  would  you  be  selling  her?  "  —  "  No,  I  don't  want  to  seU 


ENGLAND   AND    ITS    PF.OH.E.  397 

a  less  marked  degree,  we  find  the  same  characteristic  caution 
and  curiosity.  In  the  sort  ot"  commerce  of  mutual  information 
carried  on,  the  stranger,  unless  he  exercise  very  great  caution 

her  ;  do  you  want  to  buy  her  ?  "  —  '*  Na  !  I  was  nae  thinking  o'  that : 
has  she  had  na  a  foal ?  "  —  "  Not  that  I  know  of."  —  "I  had  a  gudc colt 
out  of  ours  when  I  selled  her.  Ye  're  na  ganging  to  Doune  the  year?  " 
—  "  No,  I  am  g'^ing  to  Killin,  and  want  to  know  how  fj,r  it  is."  —  "  Ay, 
ye  '11  be  gaing  t^  the  sacraments  there  \he  morn  ?  "  —  "  No,  I  don't  be- 
long to  your  kirk." — "  Ye '11  be  an  Episcopalian,  then?"  —  "Or  a 
Roman  Catholic." — "  Na,  na  ;  ye 're  nae  Roman."  —  "And  so  it  is 
twelve  miles  to  Killin  ?  "  (putting  a  leading  question.)  —  "  Na  :  it 's  nae 
just  that."  —  "  It 's  ten,  then,  I  suppose  ?  "  —  "  Ye  '11  be  for  cattle,  then, 
for  the  Falkirk  tryst  ?  "  —  *'  No  ;  I  know  nothing  about  cattle."  —  "I 
thocht  ye  'd  ha'e  been  just  ane  o'  thae  English  drovers.  Ye  have  nae 
Biccan  hills  as  this  in  your  country?"  —  "  No,  not  so  high."  —  "But 
ye  '11  ha'e  bonny  fiu-ms  ?  "  —  "  Yes,  yes  ;  very  good  lands."  —  "  Ye  '11 
nae  ha'e  better  fjirms  than  my  Lord's  at  Dunira?  "  —  "No,  no  ;  Lord 
Melville  has  very  fine  farms." — "Now,  there's  a  bonny  bit  land; 
there  's  nae  three  days  in  the  year  there  's  nae  meat  for  beasts  on  it ;  and 
it 's  to  let.  Ye  '11  be  for  a  farm  hereuwa  ?  "  —  "  No  ;  I  am  just  looking 
at  tlie  country."  —  "  And  ye  have  nae  business  ?  "  —  "  No."  —  "  Weel, 
that 's  the  easiest  way."  —  "  And  this  is  the  road  to  Killin  ?  "  —  '*  Will 
ye  tak'  some  nuts?  "  (producing  a  handful  he  had  just  gathered.)  — 
"  No  ;  I  cannot  crack  them."  —  "I  suppose  your  teeth  failing,  Ha'e  ye 
ony  snutf  ?  "  —  "  Yes,  yes  ;  here  is  a  pinch  for  you."  —  "  Na,  na  ;  I  'm 
unco  heavy  on  the  pipe,  ye  see  ;  but  I  like  a  hair  o'  snuff  ;  just  a  hair," 
(touching  the  snuff  with  the  end  of  his  little  finger,  apparently  to  prolong 
time,  and  save  the  answer  about  the  road  a  little  longer,  as  lie  seemed  to 
fear  there  were  no  more  questions  to  ask.  The  snuft",  however,  came  just 
in  time  to  allow  him  to  recall  his  ideas,  which  the  nuts  were  near  dis- 
persing.) "  And  ye  '11  be  from  the  low  country  ?  "  —  "  Yes  ;  you  may 
know  I  am  an  Englishman  by  my  tongue." — "  Na  ;  our  ain  gentry 
speaks  high  English  the  now."  —  "  Well,  well,  I  am  an  Englishman,  at 
any  rate."  —  "  And  ye  '11  be  staying  in  London  ?  "  —  "  Yes,  yes." —  "  I 
w;i3  auce  at  Smithfield  mysel'  wi'  some  beasts  :  it 's  an  unco  place,  Lon- 
don. And  what's  your  name?  asking  your  pardon."  The  name  was 
given.  "  There  's  a  hantel  o'  tliat  name  i'  the  north.  Yore  father  '11 
maybe  be  a  Highlander?  "  —  "  Yes  ;  that  is  the  reason  why  1  like  the 
Highlanders.      -  "  Well  (nearly  thrown  out),  it  'b  a  bonny  country  now. 

34 


398  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

indeed,  is  in  danger  of  being  the  loser.  Foi  it  5  the  chai» 
acter  of  the  common  Scotch  people,  in  this  kinn  A  barter,  to 
take  as  much  and  give  as  little  as  they  can.  Not  such,  how- 
ever, the  character  of  the  common  English  I  found  I  could 
get  from  them  as  much  information  of  a  personal  nature  as  1 
pleased,  and  on  the  cheapest  possible  terms.  The  Englishman 
seems  rather  gratified  than  otherwise  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  about  himself.  He  tells  you  what  he  is,  and  what 
he  is  doing,  and  what  he  intends  doing,  —  gives  a  full  account 
of  his  prospects  in  general,  — and  adds  short  notices  of  the  con- 
dition and  character  of  his  relatives.  As  for  you,  the  inquirer, 
you  may,  if  you  please,  be  communicative  about  yourself  and 
your  concerns,  and  the  Englishman  will  listen  for  a  little;  but 
the  information  is  not  particularly  wanted,  —  he  has  no  curiosity 
to  know  anything  about  you.  And  this  striking  difference  which 
obtains  between  the  two  peoples  seem  a  fundamental  one.  The 
common  Scot  is  naturally  a  more  inquisitive,  more  curious  be- 
ing, than  the  common  Englishman:  he  asks  many  more  ques- 
tions, and  accumulates  much  larger  hoards  of  fact.  In  circurr- 
stances  equally  unfavorable,  he  acquires,  in  consequence,  more 
of  the  developing  pabulum  ;  just  as  it  is  the  nature  of  some  seeds 

but  it 's  sair  caulcl  here  in  the  i\inter."  —  "  And  so  it  is  six  miles  to 
Killin  ?  "  —  "Ay,  they  ca'  it  sax."  —  "Scotch  miles,  I  suppose?"  — 
"Ay,  ay  ;  auld  miles."  —  "That  is  about  twelve  English?"  —  "  Na, 
it  '11  no  be  abune  ten  short  miles  "  —  (here  we  got  on  so  fast,  that  I  be 
gan  to  think  I  should  be  dismissed  at  last),  —  "  but  I  never  seed  them 
measured.  And  ye  '11  ha'e  left  your  family  at  Comrie  ?  "  —  "  No  ;  I  am 
alone."  —  "  They  '11  be  in  the  south,  maybe  ?  "  —  "  No  ;  I  have  no  fam 
ily."  —  "  And  arc  ye  no  married  ?  "  —  "  No."  —  "  I'm  thinking  it  'a 
time?"  —  "So  am  I."  —  "  Weel,  weel,  ye '11  ha'e  the  less  fash." — 
"  Yes,  much  less  than  in  finding  the  way  to  Killin."  —  "  0,  ay,  ye  '11 
excuse  me  ;  but  we  countra  folk  speers  muckle  questions."  —  "  Prettv 
well,  I  think."  —  "  Weel,  weel,  ye  '11  find  it  saft  a  bit  in  the  hill  ;  but  ye 
maun,  had  wast,  uid  it  's  nae  abune  ten  mile.     A  gudc  day." 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOFLh.  399 

to  attract  a  larger  amount  of  moisture  than  others,  and  to  shoot 
out  their  lobes  and  downward  fibres,  while  huskier  germs  lie 
undeveloped  amid  the  aridity  of  their  enveloping  matrices. 

But  the  broader  foundations  of  the  existing  difference  seem 
to  lie  rather  in  moral  than  in  natural  causes.  They  are  to  be 
found,  I  am  strongly  of  opinion,  in  the  very  dissimilar  religiou? 
history  of  the  two  countries.  Religion,  in  its  character  as  a 
serious  intellectual  exercise,  was  never  brought  down  to  the 
common  English  mind,  in  the  way  in  which  it  once  pervaded, 
and  to  a  certain  extent  still  saturates,  the  common  tniiid  of 
Scotland.  Nor  is  the  peculiar  form  of  religion  best  known  in 
England  so  well  suited  as  that  of  the  Scotch  to  awaken  \he 
popular  intellect.  Liturgies  and  ceremonies  may  constitute  the 
vehicles  of  a  sincere  devotion  ;  but  they  have  no  tendency  to 
exercise  the  thinking  faculties;  their  tendency  bears  rather  the 
other  way,  —  they  constitute  the  ready-made  channels,  through 
which  abstract,  unideal  sentiment  flows  without  effort.  The 
Arminianism,  too,  so  common  in  the  English  Church,  and  so 
largely  developed  in  at  least  one  of  the  more  influential  and 
numerous  bodies  of  English  Dissenters,  is  a  greatly  less  awak- 
ening system  of  doctrine  than  the  Calvinism  of  Scotland.  It 
does  not  lead  the  earnest  mind  into  those  abstruse  recesses  of 
thought  to  which  the  peculiar  Calvinistic  doctrines  form  so 
inevitable  a  vestibule.  The  man  who  deems  himself  free  is 
content  simply  to  believe  that  he  is  so ;  while  he  who  regards 
himself  as  bound  is  sure  to  institute  a  narrow  scrutiny  into  the 
nature  of  the  chain  that  binds  him ;  and  hence  it  is  that  Cal- 
vinism proves  the  best  possible  of  all  schoolmasters  for  teaching 
a  religious  people  to  think.  I  found  no  such  peasant  metaphy 
sicians  in  England  as  those  I  have  so  often  met  in  my  own 
tountry,  —  men  who,  under  the  influence  of  earnest  belief,  had 
wrought  their  way,  all  unassisted  by  the  philosopher  into  som; 


400  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS     37     ' 

of  the  ibstrusest  q.iestions  of  the  schools.  And  yet,  were  1 
asked  tj  illustrate  by  example  the  grand  piinciple  of  the  intel- 
lectual development  of  Scotland,  it  would  be  to  the  history  of 
one  of  the  self-taught  geniuses  of  England,  —  John  Bunyan 
the  inimitable  Shakspeare  of  theological  literature, —  that 
would  refer.  Had  the  tinker  of  Elstow  continued  to  be 
throughout  life  what  he  was  in  his  early  youth,  —  a  profane, 
irreligious  man, —  he  would  have  lived  and  died  an  obscure 
and  illiterate  one.  It  was  the  wild  turmoil  of  his  religious  con- 
victions that  awakened  his  mental  faculties.  Had  his  convic- 
tions slept,  the  whole  mind  would  have  slept  with  them,  and  he 
would  have  remained  intellectually  what  the  great  bulk  of  the 
common  English  still  are;  but,  as  the  case  happened,  the  tre- 
mendous blows  dealt  by  revealed  truth  at  the  door  of  his  con- 
science aroused  the  whole  inner  man ;  and  the  deep  slumber 
of  the  faculties,  reasoning  and  imaginative,  was  broken  forever. 
In  at  least  one  respect,  however,  reliijion  —  if  we  view  it  in 
a  purely  secular  aspect,  and  with  exclusive  reference  to  its 
effects  on  the  present  scene  of  things  —  was  more  essentially 
necessary  to  the  Scotch  as  a  nation  than  to  their  English 
neighbors.  The  Scottish  character  seems  by  no  means  so 
favorably  constituted  for  working  out  the  problem  of  civil  lib- 
erty as  that  of  the  English.  It  possesses  in  a  much  less  degree 
that  innate  spirit  of  independence  which,  in  asserting  a  proper 
position  for  itself,  sets  consequences  of  a  civil  and  economy? 
cast  at  defiance.  In  the  courage  that  meets  an  enemy  face  to 
face  in  the  field,  —  that  triumphs  over  the  sense  of  danger  and 
the  fear  of  death,  —  that,  when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
never  estimates  the  antagonist  strength,  but  stands  firm  and 
collected,  however  great  the  odds  mustered  against  it,  —  no 
people  in  the  world  excel  the  Scotch.  But  in  the  politicdl 
jourago  manifested  in  the  subordinate  species  of.  warfare  thai 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  401 

has  t  be  maintained,  not  with  enemies  that  assail  rom  with- 
out aut  with  class  interests  that  encroach  from  w  thin,  they 
staid  by  no  means  so  high:  they  are  calculating,  cautious, 
timid.  The  man  ready  in  the  one  sort  of  quarrel  to  lay  down 
his  life,  is  not  at  all  prepared  in  the  other  to  sacrifice  nis  means 
of  living.  And  these  striking  traits  of  the  national  character 
are  broadly  written  in  the  history  of  the  country.  In  perhaps 
no  other  mstance  was  so  poor  and  so  limited  a  district  main- 
tained intact  against  such  formidable  enemies  for  so  many  hun- 
dred years.  The  story  so  significantly  told  by  the  two  Roman 
walls  is  that  of  all  the  after  history  of  Scotland,  down  to  the 
union  of  the  two  crowns.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Scotland 
has  produced  no  true  patriots,  who  were  patriots  only,  —  none, 
at  least,  whose  object  it  was  to  elevate  the  mass  of  the  people, 
and  give  to  them  the  standing,  in  relation  to  the  privileged 
classes,  which  it  is  their  right  to  occupy.  Fletcher  of  Saltoun, 
though,  from  the  Grecian  cast  of  his  political  notions,  an  appa- 
rent exception,  was,  notwithstanding,  but  a  mere  enthusiastic 
Scot  of  the  common  national  type,  who,  while  he  would  have 
made  good  the  claims  of  his  country  against  the  world,  would, 
as  shown  by  his  scheme  of  domestic  slavery,  have  subjected 
one  half  his  countrymen  to  the  unrestrained  despotism  of  the 
other  half.  It  was  religion  alone  that  strengthened  the  charac- 
ter of  the  Scotch  where  it  most  needed  strength,  and  enabled 
them  to  struggle  against  their  native  monarchs  and  the  aris- 
tocracy of  the  country,  backed  by  all  the  power  of  the  Stale,  for 
more  tiian  a  iiiiiidred  years.  Save  for  the  influence  over  them 
of  the  Unseen  and  the  Eternal,  the  Englishman,  in  his  struggle 
with  Charles  the  First,  would  have  found  them  useless  allies 
Leslie  would  never  have  crossed  the  Borders  at  the  head  of  a 
determined  army;  and  the  Parliament  of  England  would  have 
shared,  in  this  century,  th"  fate  of  the  contemporary  States- 


402  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

General  of  France.  The  devout  Knox  is  the  true  represen  a* 
live  of  those  real  patriots  of  Scotland  who  have  toiled  and 
suffered  to  elevate  the  cha  racter  and  standing  of  her  common 
people;  and  in  the  late  Disruption  may  be  seen  how  much  and 
how  readily  her  better  men  can  sacrifice  for  principle's  sake, 
when  they  deem  their  religion  concerned.  But  apart  from 
religious  considerations,  the  Scotch  afTect  a  cheap  and  frugal 
patriotism,  that  achieves  little  and  costs  nothing. 

n  the  common  English,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  much  of 
that  natural  independence  which  the  Scotchman  wants  ;  and 
village  Hampdens  —  men  quite  as  ready  to  do  battle  in  behalf 
of  their  civil  rights  with  the  lord  of  the  manor  as  the  Scot  with 
a  foreign  enemy  —  are  comparatively  common  characters.  Nor 
is  it  merely  in  the  history,  institutions  and  literature,  of  the 
country,  —  in  its  great  Charter,  —  its  Petition  of  Right,  —  its 
Habeas  Corpus  Act,  —  its  trial  by  jury,  —  in  the  story  of  its 
Hampdens,  Russells,  and  Sidneys,  or  in  the  political  writings 
of  its  Miltons,  Harringtons,  and  Lockes,  —  that  we  recognize 
the  embodiment  of  this  great  national  trait.  One  may  see  it 
scarce  less  significantly  stamped,  in  the  course  of  a  brief  morn- 
ing's walk,  on  the  face  of  the  fields.  There  are  in  Scotland 
few  of  the  pleasant  styles  and  sequestered  pathways  open  to 
the  public,  which  form  in  England  one  of  the  most  pleasing 
features  of  the  agricultural  provinces.  The  Scotch  people,  in 
those  rural  districts  in  which  land  is  of  most  value,  find  them- 
selves shut  out  of  their  country.  Their  patriotism  may  expa- 
tiate as  it  best  can  on  the  dusty  public  road,  for  to  the  road 
they  have  still  a  claim  ;  but  the  pleasant  hedgerows,  the  woods, 
and  fields,  and  running  streams,  are  all  barred  against  them  ; 
dnd  so  generally  is  this  the  case,  that  if  they  could  by  and  by 
*ell  that  the  Scotch  had  taken  Scotland,  just  as  their  fathers 
used  to  te     in  joke,  as  a  p'ec  "'"  intelligence,  that  "  the  Dutcb 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  403 

nad  tci<eii  Ilollai/d,"  it  would  be  no  joke  at  all,  but,  on  the  con- 
trar/,  a  piece  of  most  significant  news,  almost  too  good  to  be 
true.  From  encroachments  of  this  character  the  independ'^nt 
spirit  of  the  Englisli  people  has  preserved  them.  The  right 
of  old  pathways  has  been  jealously  maintained.  An  English- 
rtian  would  peril  his  livelihood,  any  day,  in  behalf  of  a  style 
that  had  existed  in  the  times  of  his  grandfather.  And  hence 
England,  in  its  richest  districts,  with  all  its  quiet  pathways 
and  pleasant  green  lanes,  has  been  kept  open  to  the  English. 

There  are,  however,  at  least  two  causes  in  operation  at  the 
present  time,  that  are  militating  against  this  independent  spirit. 
One  of  these  is  the  Whig  poor-law  ;  the  other,  the  tenant-at- 
will  system,  now  become  so  general  in  England.  Under  the 
old  poor-law,  the  English  laborer  in  the  rural  districts  indulged 
in  a  surly,  and  by  no  means  either  amiable  or  laudable,  inde- 
pendence. The  man  who,  when  set  aside  from  labor,  or  who, 
when  employment  could  not  be  procured,  could  compel  from 
his  parish  an  allowance  for  his  support,  unclogged  by  the  hor- 
rors of  the  modern  workhouse,  occupied  essentially  different 
ground  from  the  man  who,  in  similar  circumstances,  can  but 
compel  admission  into  a  frightful  prison.  The  exposures  of 
journals  such  as  the  "Times"  have  been  Tess  successful  in  pro- 
ducing an  iuduential  reaction  against  the  Union  Bastiles,  than 
in  inspiring  the  poor  witli  a  thorough  dread  of  them.  A  mod- 
ern workhouse  in  the  vista  forms  but  a  dreary  prospect;  and 
the  independence  of  the  English  agricultural  laborer  is  sinking 
under  the  frequent  survey  of  it  which  his  circumstances  com- 
pel. Nor  has  the  very  general  introduction  of  the  tenant-al- 
will  system  been  less  influential  in  lowering  the  higher-toned 
and  more  manly  independency  of  spirit  of  a  better  class  of  tho 
Elng  i-^h  people.  One  of  the  provisions  of  the  Reform  Bill  had 
had  rno  effect  of  sinking  the  tenantry  of  England  mto  "^  «tni«; 


•104  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

of  vassalage  and  political  subserviency  without  precedent  in 
the  country  since  the  people  acquired  standing-roo.  n  within  the 
pak  -f  the  constitution.  It  has  been  well  remarked  bj^  Paley, 
that  Jie  more  direct  consequences  of  political  innovation  art, 
often  the  least  important,  and  that  it  is  from  the  silent  and 
unobserved  operation  of  causes  set  at  work  for  different  pur- 
poses, that  the  greatest  revolutions  take  their  rise.  In  illus- 
tration of  the  remark,  he  adduces  that  provision  in  the  Mutiny 
A;t,  introdu:ed  with  but  little  perception  of  its  vast  importance, 
which,  by  making  the  standing  army  dependent  on  an  annual 
grant  of  Parliament,  has  rendered  the  king's  dissent  to  a  law 
which  has  received  the  sanction  of  both  houses  too  perilous  a 
step  to  be  advised,  and  has  thus  altered  the  whole  framework 
and  quality  of  the  British  constitution.  He  adduces,  further, 
the  arrangement,  at  first  as  inadequately  estimated,  which,  by 
conferring  on  the  crown  the  nomination  to  all  employments  in 
the  public  service,  has  well-nigh  restored  to  the  monarch,  by 
the  amount  of  patronage  which  it  bestows,  the  power  which 
the  provision  in  the  Mutiny  Act  had  taken  away.  And  thus 
the  illustrations  of  the  philosopher  run  on, — all  of  a  kind 
suited  to  show  that  "  in  politics  the  most  important  and  perma- 
nent effects  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  incidental  and  unfore- 
seen."  It  is  questionable,  however,  whether  there  be  any  of 
the  adduced  instances  more  striking  than  that  furnished  by 
this  indirect  consequence  of  the  Reform  Bill  on  the  tenantry 
of  England.  The  provision  which  conferred  a  vote  on  the 
tenant-at-will  abrogated  leases,  and  made  the  tiller  of  the  soil 
a  vassal.  The  farmer  who  precariously  holds  his  farm  fr<:aii 
year  to  year  cannot,  of  course,  be  expected  to  sink  so  much 
capital  in  the  soil,  in  the  hope  of  a  distant  and  uncertain  return 
as  the  lesse?,  certain  of  possession  for  a  specified  number  of 
reasons    bu    ^ome  capital  he  must  sii  k  in  it.     It  is  impossible, 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PKOPl.R.  405 

according  to  the  modern  system,  or,  indeed,  any  system  ol  nus« 
bandry,  that  all  the  capital  committed  to  the  earth  in  winter 
and  spring  should  be  resumed  in  the  following  summer  and 
autumn.  A  considerable  overplus  must  inevitably  remain  to 
la  gathered  up  in  future  seasons;  and  this  overplus,  in  the 
case  of  the  tenant-at-will,  is  virtually  converted  into  a  deposit 
lodged  in  the  hands  of  the  landlord,  to  secure  the  depositor's 
political  subserviency  and  vassalage.  Let  him  but  once  mani- 
fest a  will  and  mind  of  his  own,  and  vote  in  accordance 
with  his  convictions,  contrary  to  the  will  of  the  landlord,  and 
straightway  the  deposit,  converted  int6  a  penalty,  is  forfeited 
for  the  offence. 

I  spent  a  few  fine  days  in  revisiting  the  Silurian  deposits  of 
Dudley,  and  in  again  walking  over  the  grounds  of  Hagley  and 
the  Leasowes.  I  visited  also  the  Silurian  patch  at  Walsall, 
which,  more  than  one-half  surrounded  by  the  New  Red  Sand- 
stone, forms  the  advanced  guard,  or  picket,  of  this  system  in 
England  towards  the  east,  it  presents,  however,  over  the 
entire  tract  of  soine  six  or  eight  square  miles  which  it  occu- 
pies, a  flat,  soil-covered  surface,  on  which  the  geologist  may 
walk  for  hours  without  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  rock  under- 
neath ;  and  it  is  only  from  the  stone  brought  to  the  surface  at 
sinkings  made  for  lime,  and  wrought  after  the  manner  uf  coal- 
pits, that  he  arrives  at  a  knowledge  of  the  deposits  below.  I 
picked  up  beside  the  mouth  of  a  pit  near  the  town  of  Walsall 
at  least  two  very  characteristic  fossils  of  the  system,  —  the 
Atrypa  Affinis  and  the  Catenipora  Escharoidcs  ;  and  sa.v  that, 
notwithstanding  the  proximity  of  the  Coal  Measures,  the  rock, 
though  mineralogically  identical  with  the  Carboniferous  Lime- 
stone, cannot  be  regarded  as  belonging  to  that  formation,  which, 
with  the  Old  Red  Sandstone,  is  wholly  wantini:  in  the  Dudley 
coal-field.     The  coal  here  rests  on  the  Upper  Silurian,  just  aa 


405  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS     jV 

the  Lias  of  Cromartyshire  rests  on  the  Lower  Old  Red,  r  the 
Wealden  of  Moray  on  the  Cornstone.  On  my  way  n.rth,  1 
quitted  the  train  at  Nant\vich,to  see  the  sah-works  which  have 
been  carried  on  in  that  town  for  many  years ;  but  I  found  them 
merely  editions  in  miniature  of  the  works  at  Droitwich.  1 
would  fain  also  have  visited  the  salt-mines  of  Cheshire,  so 
famous  for  their  beauty.  They  lay  off  my  road,  however ; 
ftnd,  somewhat  in  haste  to  get  home,  I  did  what  I  afterwards 
regretted  —  quitted  England  without  seeing  them.  Before 
nightfall,  after  leaving  Nantwich,  I  got  on  to  Liverpool,  and 
passed  the  night  in  a  respectable  temperance  coffee-house, — 
one  of  the  lodging-houses  of  that  middle  grade  in  which,  \v 
England,  the  traveller  is  sure  to  meet  with  a  great  many  Dis- 
senters, and  the  Dis-'enter  with  a  great  many  of  his  brethren  ; 
and  in  which  both,  in  consequence,  are  apt  to  regard  the  cause 
of  Dissent  as  rather  stronger  in  the  country  than  it  actually  is. 
But  the  consideration  of  this  somewhat  curious  subject  I  shall, 
defer  till  the  nox;,  — my  concluding  chapter. 


ENni,ANi»    aNH    its:    PRopt.E.  4i)7 


UHAPTEK    XX. 

Dissent  a  Mi.  i-formalioii  Organism  in  England.  —  Chnrch  of  Englandism 
stronij  among  the  Upper  and  Lower  Classes:  its  Peculi;ir  Principle  of 
Strength  among  the  Lower;  among  the  Upper. — The  Church  of  Eng- 
land one  of  the  strongest  Institutions  of  the  Country.  —  Puseyism,  how- 
over,  a  Canker-worm  at  its  Root  ;  Partial  Success  of  the  Principle.  - 
TUe  Type  of  English  Dissent  essentially  different  from  that  of  Scot- 
land ;  the  Causes  of  the  Difference  deep  in  the  Diverse  Character  of 
thp.  two  Peo|)les.  —  Insulated  Character  of  the  Englishman  productive 
of  Independency.  —  Adhesive  Character  of  the  Scotch  productive  of 
Presliyterianism. — Attempts  to  legislate  for  the  Scotch  in  Church 
Matters  on  an  English  Princijjle  always  unfortunate. — Erastianism  ; 
essentially  a  different  thing  to  the  English  Churchman  from  what  it 
is  to  the  Scot.  —  Reason  why.  —  Independent  Scotch  Congregation  in 
a  Rural  District.  —  Rarely  well  based  ;  and  why.  —  Conclusion. 

When  I  first  came  among  the  English,  I  was  impressed  by 
tlie  apparent  strength  of  Dissent  in  the  country.  At  least  two 
out  of  every  three  Englishmen  I  met  in  the  lodging-houses, 
and  no  inconsiderable  proportion  of  the  passengers  by  the  rail- 
ways, so  far  as  I  could  ascertain  their  denominations,  were,  I 
found,  Dis.senters.  I  had  lodged  in  respectable  second-class 
coffee-houses  and  inns  :  I  had  travelled  on  the  rails  by  the 
second-class  carriages  :  I  had  thus  got  fairly  into  a  middle 
stratum  of  English  society,  and  was  not  aware  at  the  time 
that,  like  some  of  the  geologic  formations,  it  has  its  own  pecu- 
liar organisms,  essentially  different,  in  the  group,  from  those  of 
either  the  stratum  above  or  the  stratum  below.  Dissent  is  u 
mid-formation  organism  in  England;  whereas  Church  of  Eng- 
latidism  more  peculiarly  belongs  to  the  upper  and  lower  strata. 
Church  of  Englandism  puts  up  at  the  first-class  inns,  travels 


4'>^  tiKsr  impKhi^^iciN^  ■n' 

oy  th3  first-class  carnages,  possesses  tlie  titles,  the  large  estatui 
and  the  manor-houses,  and  enjoys,  in  short,  the  lion's  share  of 
the  vested  interests.  And  in  the  lower  stratum  it  is  also  strong 
after  a  sort:  there  e\i«ts  in  its  favor  a  powerful  prejudice, 
capable  of  being  direcied  to  itie  a.'compiisliment  of  purposes  of 
either  good  or  evil. 

Among  the  mid-stratum  Dissent  of  England  I  found  a 
marked  preponderance  of  Independency,  which,  indeed,  seems 
the  true  type  of  English  Dissent  in  the  middle  walks;  and 
shrewd,  intelligent,  thoroughly  respectable  men  the  English 
Independents  are.  But  when  I  descended  to  a  humbler  order 
of  lodging-houses,  and  got  by  this  means  among  the  lower 
English  people,  I  lost  sight  of  Independency  altogether.  The 
only  form  of  Dissent  I  then  encountered  was  Wesleyism,  —  in 
the  New  Connection,  political,  speculative,  and  not  over  sound 
in  its  theology, —  in  the  Old,  apparently  much  more  quiet, 
more  earnest,  and  more  under  the  influence  of  religious  feelingf. 
The  type  of  Dissent  seems  as  decidedly  Wesleyan  among  the 
humbler  English,  as  it  is  Independent  among  the  middle 
classes;  nay,  judging  from  what  I  saw%  —  and  my  observations, 
if  necessarily  not  very  numerous,  were  at  least  made  at  points 
widely  apart,  —  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  a  preponderating 
share  of  the  vital  religion  of  the  laborers  and  handicraftsmen 
of  the  English  people  is  to  be  found  comprised  among  the 
membership  of  this  excellent  body.  And  yet,  after  all,  it  takes 
up  but  comparatively  a  small  nortion  of  the  lower  population 
of  the  country.  Among  the  great  buik  of  the  humbler  people, 
religion  exists,  not  as  a  vitality, —  not  even  as  a  speculative 
system,  —  but  simply  as  an  undefined  hereditary  prejudice, 
that  looms  large  and  uncertain  in  the  gloom  of  darkened  intel- 
lects. And,  to  the  extent  to  which  tliis  prejudice  is  influential 
t  lavors  the  stability  of  the  Established  Church.    The  class  who 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLK.  409 

entertain  it  evince  a  marked  neglect  of  the  Church  s  services, 
—  give  no  heed  to  her  teachings,  —  rarely  enter  her  places  of 
worship  even,  —  nay,  her  right  has  been  challenged  to  reckon 
on  them  as  adherents  at  all.  They  have  been  described  as  a 
neutral  party,  that  should  be  included  neither  in  (he  census  of 
Dissent  nor  of  the  Establishment.  But  to  the  Establishment 
they  decidedly  belong.  They  regard  the  National  Church  as 
theirs,  —  as  a  Church  of  which  an  Englishman  may  well  be 
proud,  and  in  which  each  one  of  them,  some  short  time  before 
he  dies,  is  to  become  decent  and  devout.  And  there  may  De 
much  political  strength,  be  it  remarked,  in  prejudices  of  this 
character.  Protestantism  in  the  Lord  George  Gordon  mob? 
was  but  a  prejudice,  not  a  religion.  These  mobs,  scarce  les.« 
truly  in  history  than  as  drawn  by  Dickons,  were  religious  mobs 
without  religion  ;  but  the  prejudice  vv^as,  notwithstanding,  a 
strong  political  element,  which,  until  a  full  half-century  had 
worn  it  out  of  the  English  mind,  rendered  concession  to  the 
Papists  unsafe.  We  see  nearly  the  same  phenomenon  exhib- 
ited by  the  Orangemen  of  Ireland  of  the  present  day,  —  a  class 
with  \vhom  Protestantism  is  a  vigorous,  influential  principle, 
though  it  bears  scarce  any  reference  to  a  world  to  come ;  and 
find,  in  like  manner,  the  Episcopalian  prejudice  strong  among 
the  English  masses  broken  loose  from  religion. 

Church  of  Englatidism  is  peculiarly  strong  in  the  upper 
walks  of  English  society.  Like  the  old  brazen  statue,  huge 
enough  to  hold  a  lighthouse  in  its  hand,  it  strides  across  the 
busy  current  of  niiddle  English  life,  and  plants  its  one  colossal 
foot  among  the  lower  orders,  and  the  other  among  the  aristoc- 
racy. It  undoubtedly  possesses  among  the  higher  classes  a 
double  element  of  strength.  It  is  strong,  on  the  principle  eulo- 
gized by  Burke,  from  the  union  which  it  exhibits  of  high  rank 
and  the  sacerCotal  character.  Religion  developed  in  the  Puri- 
3.-) 


410  FIRST    IMPRESSIO.  6    OF 

tunic  type,  and  existing  as  an  energetic  reform i  ig  spirit,  is 
quite  as  independent  of  riches  and  exalted  station  .n  its  minis« 
ters  now  as  in  the  days  of  the  apostles;  but  to  religion  existing 
simply  as  a  conservative  influence,  —  and  such  is  its  character 
in  the  upper  walks  of  English  society,  —  wealth  and  title  are 
powerful  adjuncts.  When  the  mere  conservative  clergyman 
has  earls  and  dukes  to  address,  he  is  considerably  more  influ- 
ential as  a  rector  than  as  a  curate,  and  as  an  archbishop  than 
as  a  dean.  The  English  hierarchy  is  fitted  to  the  English 
aristocracy.  And,  further,  the  Church  of  England,  as  an 
Establishment,  derives  no  little  strength  through  an  element 
from  which  the  Establishment  of  Scotland,  owing  in  part  to  its 
inferior  wealth,  but  much  more  to  the  very  different  genius  of 
the  Scotch  people,  derives  only  weakness,  —  it  is  strong  in  its 
secular  and  Erastian  character.  There  is  scarce  an  aristocratic 
interest  in  the  country,  Whig  or  Tory,  with  which  it  is  not 
.ntertwined,  nor  a  great  family  that  has  not  a  large  money 
stake  involved  in  its  support.  Like  a  stately  tree  that  has  sent 
its  roots  deep  into  the  joints  and  crannies  of  a  rock,  and  that 
cannot  be  uprooted  without  first  tearing  open  with  levers  and 
wedges  the  enclosing  granite,  it  would  seem  as  if  the  aristo:- 
racy  would  require  to  be  shaken  and  displaced  by  revo  utioi. 
ere,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  the  English  Establishment 
could  come  down.  The  Church  of  England  is,  at  the  present 
moment,  one  of  the  strongest  institutions  of  the  country. 

There  is,  however,  a  canker-worm  at  its  root.  The  revival 
of  the  High  Church  element,  in  even  its  more  modified  form, 
bodes  It  no  good ;  while  in  the  extreme  Puseyite  type  it  is 
fraugnc  with  danger.  In  the  conversions  to  Popery  to  which 
the  revival  has  led,  the  amount  of  damage  done  to  the  Esiab- 
.ishment  is  obvious.  We  see  it  robbed  of  some  of  its  more  ear- 
lost,  energetic  men.     These,  however,  form  merely  a  few  chips 


ENGLAND    AND    ITS    PEOPLE.  41  . 

and  frngments  struck  ofT  the  edifice.  But  the  eai.  ig  canker, 
introduced  by  the  principle  into  its  very  heart,  threatens  results 
of  a  greatly  more  perilous  cast, —  results  none  the  less  formi- 
dable from  the  circumstance  that  the  mischief  inflicted  is  of  too 
covert  a  nature  to  be  exactly  estimated.  If  the  axe  of  an  en- 
en  y  has  assailed  the  supporting-  posts  of  the  hut  of  the  Indian, 
he  can  at  once  calculate  on  the  extent  of  the  damage  received ; 
but  the  ravages  of  the  white  ants,  that  scoop  out  the  body  of 
the  wood,  leaving  merely  a  thin  outside  film,  elude  calculation, 
and  he  trembles  lest  the  first  hurricane  that  arises  should  bury 
him  in  the  ruins  of  the  weakened  structure.  This  much,  at 
least,  is  obvious,  —  the  position  in  which  the  revived  influence 
has  placed  the  English  Church  is  one  of  antagonism  to  the  tend- 
encies of  the  ag-e ;  and  equally  certain  it  is  that  institutions 
waste  away,  like  ice-flows  stranded  in  thaw-swollen  rivers, 
when  the  general  current  of  the  time  has  set  in  against  them. 
The  present  admiration  of  the  mediaeval  cannot  be  other  than 
a  mere  transitory  freak  of  fashion.  The  shadow  on  the  great 
dial  of  human  destiny  will  not  move  backward:  vassalage  and 
serfship  will  not  return.  There  is  too  wide  a  diffusion  of  the 
morning  light  for  bat-eyed  superstition  ;  and  the  light  is  that 
)f  the  mor'iing,  —  not  of  the  close  of  day.  Science  will  con- 
tmue  to  evtend  the  limits  of  her  empire,  and  to  increase  th*' 
numbers  of  her  adherents,  unscared  by  any  spectre  of  the  de- 
funct scholastic  philosophy  which  Oxford  may  evoke  froir.  'he 
abyss.  Nay,  the  goblin,  like  those  spirits  that  used  to  carr^ 
away  with  them,  in  iheir  retreat,  whole  sides  of  houses,  will  be 
formidable,  in  the  end,  to  but  the  ecclesiastical  institution  in 
which  it  has  been  raised.  It  is  worthy  of  notice,  too,  that 
though  Popery  and  Puritanism — the  grand  antagonistic  prin- 
ciples of  church  history  for  at  least  the  last  four  centuries  — 
are  both  possessed  of  great  inherent  power,  the   true  ainloj^ue 


412  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ot  modern  Puseyism  proved  but  a  weakling,  e-.en  when  it  m 
best :  it  was  found  not  tc  possess  inherent  power.  The  Can- 
terburianism  of  the  times  of  Charles  the  First  did  that  hapless 
monarch  much  harm.  But  while  many  a  gtiiiant  principle 
fought  for  him  in  the  subsequent  struggle,  from  the  old  chival- 
rous honor  and  devoted  loyalty  of  the  English  gentleman,  down 
to  even  the  poetry  of  the  playhouse  and  the  esprit  du,  corps  ot 
the  green-room,  we  find  in  the  thick  of  the  conflict  scarce  any 
trace  of  the  religion  of  Laud.  It  resembled  the  mere  scarlet 
rag  that  at  the  Spanish  festival  irritates  the  bull,  but  is  of  no 
after  use  in  the  combat.  It  is  further  deserving  of  remark,  that 
an  English  Church  reformed  in  its  legislative  and  judicial 
framework  to  the  very  heart's  wish  of  the  Puseyite,  would  not 
be  greatly  more  suited  to  the  genius  of  the  English  people  than 
in  that  existing  state  of  the  institution  over  which  the  Puseyite 
sighs.  To  no  one  circumstance  is  the  Church  more  indebted 
for  its  preservation  than  to  the  suppression  of  that  Court  of 
Convocation  which  Puseyism  is  so  anxious  to  restore.  The 
General  Assemblies  and  Synods  of  Presbyterian  Scotland  form, 
from  their  great  admixture  of  the  lay  element,  ecclesiastical 
parliaments  that  represent  the  people  ;  and  their  meetings  add 
immensely  to  the  popular  interest  in  the  Churches  to  which 
they  belong;  but  the  Convocation  was  a  purely  sacerdotal  court. 
It  formed  a  mere  clerical  erection,  as  little  representative  in  its 
charai:ter  as  the  Star  Chamber  of  Charles.  It  was  suppressed 
just  as  it  was  becoming  thoroughly  alien  to  the  English  spirit; 
and  its  restoration  at  the  present  time  would  be  one  of  the 
greatest  calamities  that  could  befall  the  English  Establishment. 
Of  the  partial  successes  of  Puseyism  I  cannot  speak  from 
direct  observation.  There  are  cases,  however,  in  which  it 
seems  to  have  served  to  some  extent  the  ends  which  it  was 
•esu?  Mtated  *o  ar'omp'ish  ;  —  in  one  class  of  instances,  through 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  41.1 

the  support  lent  it  by  a  favoring  aristocracy, —  in  another  class, 
through  the  appliance  of  means  more  exclusively  its  own. 
And,  at  the  risk  of  being  somewhat  tedious,  I  shall  present  the 
reader  with  a  specimen  of  each. 

It  has  been  told  me  by  an  intelligent  friend,  who  resided  for 
some  time  in  a  rich  district  in  one  of  the  midland  counties,  in 
which  the  land  for  many  miles  round  is  parcelled  out  among 
some  three  or  four  titled  proprietors,  that  he  found  Protestant 
Dissent  wholly  crushed  in  the  locality,  —  its  sturdier  adherents 
cast  out,  —  its  weaker  ones  detached  from  their  old  commun- 
ions, and  brought  within  the  pale  of  the  Establishment,  —  and 
a  showy  if  not  very  earnest  Puseyism  reigning  absolute.  The 
:hange  had  been  mainly  brought  about,  he  ascertained,  hy  the 
female  members  of  the  great  landholding  families.  The  ludies 
of  the  manors  had  been  vastly  more  active  than  their  lords, 
with  whose  Conservative  leanings,  however,  the  servile  politics 
of  Puseyism  agreed  well.  Charities  to  the  poor  of  the  district 
had  been  extensively  doled  out  on  the  old  non-compulsory 
scheme;  but  regular  attendance  at  the  parish  church,  or  the 
chapel  attached  to  the  mansion-house,  was  rendered  all-essen- 
tial in  constituting  a  claim  :  the  pauper  wjio  absented  himself 
might,  if  he  pleased,  fall  back  on  the  workhouse  and  crush 
bones.  School.s  had  been  erected  in  which  the  rising  genera- 
tion might  be  at  once  shown  the  excellence  and  taught  the 
trick  of  implicit  submission  to  authority ;  and  the  pupils  who 
attended  school  had  to  attend  church  also,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Even  their  parents  had  been  successfully  hounded  out. 
Lords  of  the  nmnor  have  no  little  power  in  England  where  their 
tenants  arc  tenants-at-will,  and  where  almost  every  cottage  of 
the  villages  on  their  lands  is  their  own  property.  Obstinate 
Dissenters  'bund  the  controversy  speedily  settled  bv  thrir  re- 
iiovnl  from    he  scene  of  it;  while  the  less  stubborn  karnr-d   io 


414  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

time  10  gropo  their  way  to  the  parish  church.  Even  the  itin- 
erant preacher  now  finds  himself  barred  out  of  districts  m 
which  he  could  draw  around  him  considerable  audiences  only 
a  few  years  ago.  There  are  ej'es  on  his  old  hearers,  and  they 
keep  out  of  ear-shot  of  his  doctrine.  And  this  state  of  things 
obtains  in  localities  in  which  the  clergy,  though  essentially 
Puseyite,  are  by  no  means  so  overburdened  by  earnestness  as 
to  be  in  danger  of  precipitating  themselves  on  Rome.  I  have 
heard  of  a  whole  parish  brought  out  by  such  means  to  listen  to 
a  zealous  sprig  of  High  Churchism  who  preached  to  them  with 
a  broken  face,  —  the  result  of  an  accident  which  he  had  met  at 
a  fox-hunt  a  few  days  before. 

This,  however,  is  not  a  safe,  nor  can  it  be  an  enduring  tri- 
umph. To  use  Cowper's  figure,  the  bow  forced  into  too  violent 
a  curve  will  scarce  fail  to  leap  into  its  "first  position  with  a 
spring."  The  reaction  in  English  society  on  the  restraint  of 
the  times  of  Cromwell,  which  so  marked  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second,  will  be  but  faintly  typical  of  the  reaction  destined 
to  take  place  in  these  districts.  It  is  according  to  the  unvary- 
ing principles  of  human  nature,  that  the  bitterest  enemies  of 
High  Churchism  and  a  High  Church  aristocracy  England  ever 
produced  should  be  reared  at  the  Puseyite  schools  and  churches, 
which  mere  tyrant  compulsion  has  thus  served  to  fill.  In  the 
other  class  of  cases  in  which  the  revived  religion  has  triumphed, 
its  successes  have  been  of  a  more  solid  and  less  perilous  char- 
acter. I  have  been  informed  by  a  friend  resident  in  one  of  (he 
busier  English  towns,  that  by  far  the  most  influential  and 
flourishing  congregation  of  the  place  is  a  Puseyite  one.  Some 
oight  or  ten  years  ago  it  had  been  genteelly  Evangelistic ;  but, 
ivithout  baco  .ling  less  earnest,  it  had  got  fairly  afloat  on  the 
rising  tide  of  revived  Anglo-Catholicism,  and  had  adopted  both 
the  doctrine'i  and  the  po  ',cy  of  the  Puseyite  party.     It  has  its 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  41? 

energetic,  active  staff  of  visitii  g  ladies,  who  reconimend  ihein- 
selves  to  the  poor  of  the  district  by  their  gratuitous  labors  and 
their  cha;ities.  Its  clergyman,  too,  is  a  laborious,  devoted  man, 
frequent  in  his  visits  to  families  saddened  by  bereavement  or 
afflicted  by  disease  ;  and  the  congregation  have  their  mission- 
ary besides,  —  a  person  of  similar  character,  —  to  second  and 
multiply  in  the  same  walk  the  endeavors  of  his  superior. 
Whatever  Moderatism  and  its  congeners  may  think  of  the 
aggressive  system  of  Dr.  Chalmers,  Puseyism  at  least  doea 
not  deem  it  either  unimportant  or  impracticable.  The  revived 
principle  is,  besides,  found  supplementing  the  system  with 
expedients  of  its  own.  The  Whig  poor-law  adds,  as  has  been 
shown,  to  Puseyite  influence ;  and  Puseyism  adds  to  that  influ- 
ence still  more,  by  denouncing  the  Whig  poor-law.  Is  a  pauper 
in  the  locality  aggrieved  through  the  neglect  or  cruelty  of  some 
insolent  official  ?  —  Puseyism  in  this  congregation  takes  up  his 
cause  and  fights  his  battle  ;  and  hence  great  popularity  among 
the  poorer  classes,  and  pews  crowded  with  them  to  tlie  doors  ; 
while  Evangelistic  clergymen  of  the  Establishment,  in  the 
same  town,  have  to  preach  to  nearly  empty  galleries,  and  the 
Dissenters  of  the  place  are  fain  to  content  themselves  with 
retaining  unshortened,  and  hardly  that,  their  old  rolls  of  mem- 
bership. The  only  aggressive,  increscent  power  in  the  locality 
is  Puseyism.  Nor  is  it  found,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Popish 
converts,  precipitating  itself  on  Rome.  Much  must  depend,  in 
matters  of  this  kind,  on  the  peculiar  character  of  the  leading 
n)inds  of  a  congregation.  Mr.  Newman  has  become  a  zealous 
Papist ;  but  Dr.  Puscv,  on  the  other  hand,  is  still  a  member  ol 
the  Church  of  England  ;  and  it  is  a  wcU-known  historical  fact, 
that  Laud,  with  all  his  Popish  leanings,  refused  a  cardinal's 
liat,  and  died  an  English  bisnop.  There  are  minds  that,  like 
Mahomfjt's  Goffu  ,  cin  rest  in  a  middle  region,  surrounded  by 


416  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

balancing  att 'actions,  —  that  can  dwell  on  premises  without 
passing  to  cocclusions,  —  and  thus  resist  the  gravitating  influ- 
ence ;  and  in  the  English  Establishment  the  balancing  attrac- 
tions are  many  and  powerful.  Hence  the  midwa}-^  position 
occupied  by  the  great  bulk  of  the  English  Puseyites,  and  the 
bad  metaphysics  with  which  they  bemuse  themselves,  in  justi- 
fying their  sudden  halt  at  what  should  be  so  palpable  a  point 
of  progress.  As  has  been  quaintly  remarked  by  an  English 
clergyman  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Church,  "  they  set  out 
for  Rome,  but  stopped  short  on  reaching  Appii  Forum,  and  got 

drunk  at  the  Three  Taverns." 

«. 

But  enough,  and,  I  am  afraid,  more  than  enough,  of  Pusey- 
ism.  It  forms,  however,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  features 
of  the  domestic  history  of  England  in  the  present  day ;  and 
seems  destined  powerfully  to  affect,  in  the  future,  the  condition 
and  standing  of  the  great  ecclesiastical  institution  of  the  coun- 
try. And  it  is  worth  while  bestowing  a  little  attention  on  a 
phenomenon  which  the  future  chronicler  may  have  to  record  as 
by  far  the  most  influential  among  various  causes  which  led  to 
the  downfall  of  the  English  Establishment.  It  may  yet  come 
to  be  written  as  history,  that  this  great  and  powerful  institution, 
when  casting  about  for  an  element  of  strength,  instead  of  avail- 
ing herself  of  the  Evangelism  of  her  first  Reformers,  —  the 
only  form  of  religion  fitted  to  keep  ahead  of  the  human  mind 
in  its  forward  movement,  —  attached  herself  to  that  old  sta 
tionary  religion  of  resuscitated  tradition,  idle  ceremony,  and 
false  science,  which  her  reformers  had  repudiated  ;  and  that, 
unable,  in  consequence,  to  prosecute  the  onward  voyage,  the 
great  tidal  wave  of  advancing  civilization  bore  her  down,  and 
she  foundered  at  anchor.  * 

I  was   a    good    deal    impressed   by   the    marked  difference 
vehich  obtains!  between  the  types  of  English  and  Scotch  Dis- 


ENGLAND  ANT)  ITS  PEOPLE.  417 

sent.  They  indicate,  I  am  of  opinion,  the  very  opposite  charac- 
ters of  thj  two  cointries.  No  form  of  Dissent  ever  flourished 
in  Scotland  that  'vas  not  of  the  Presbyterian  type.  The 
Relief  body,  —  the  various  branches  of  the  Seces;i"on,  —  the 
Free  Church,  —  the  followers  of  Richard  Cameron,  —  are  all 
Presbyterian.  Wesleyism  thrives  but  indifferently;  —  Inde- 
pendency, save  where  sustained  by  the  superior  talents  of  its 
preachers  in  large  towns,  where  the  character  of  the  people 
has  become  more  cosmopolitan  and  less  peculiarly  Scotch  than 
in  the  smaller  towns  and  the  country,  gets  on  at  least  no  bet- 
ter;—  Episcopacy,  with  fashion,  title  and  great  wealth,  on  its 
side,  scarce  numbers  in  its  ranks  the  one-sixtieth  part  of  the 
Scotch  people.  Presbyterianism,  and  that  alone,  is  the  true 
national  type  of  the  religion  of  Scotland.  In  England,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  are  two  distinct  national  types,  —  the  Episco- 
palian and  the  Independent;  and  both  flourish  to  the  exclusion 
of  almost  every  other.  Wesleyism  also  flourishes  ;  but  Wes- 
.eyism  may  be  properly  regarded  as  an  off-shoot  of  Episcopacy. 
In  the  New  Connection  there  is  a  palpable  development  of  the 
Independent  spirit;  but  in  that  genuine  Wesleyism  established 
by  Wesley,  which  gives  its  preachers  at  will  to  its  people,  and 
removes  them  at  pleasure,  and  which  possesses  authority,  order, 
and  union,  without  popular  representation,  the  spirit  and  princi- 
ple is  decidedly  Episcopalian.  It  may  be  wortli  while  exam- 
ining into  a  few  of  the  more  prominent  causes  in  which  these 
ecclesiastical  peculiarities  of  the  two  countries  have  in  a  greai 
measure  originated,  altogether  independently  oi  ihe  jus  divinuih 
arguments  of  the  theologian,  or  of  the  influences  which  these 
exercise. 

There  obtains  a  marked  difference  in  one  important  respect  be 
tween  English  and  Scotch  character.  The  Englishman  stands 
oit   more   separate    ii  d  apart  as  an   individual,    the  Sc(»tch- 


4l8  FIRST      "IPRESS.ONS    OF 

man  's  more  nixed  up,  through  the  force  of  his  sympathies^ 
with  tfie  community  to  which  he  belongs.  The  Englishman's 
house  is  his  castle,  and  he  glories  in  its  being  such.  England 
is  a  country  studded  over  with  innumerable  detached  fortalices, 
each  one  furnished  with  its  own  sturdy  independent  castellan, 
read}',  no  doubt,  to  join,  for  purposes  of  mutual  defence,  with 
his  brother  castellans,  but  not  greatly  drawn  towards  them  by 
the  operation  of  any  internal  sympathy.  Englishmen  some- 
what resemble,  in  this  respect,  particles  of  matter  lying  outside 
the  sphere  of  the  attractive  influences,  and  included  within  that 
of  the  repulsive  ones.  The  population  exists  as  separate  parts, 
'.ike  loose  grains  of  sand  in  a  heap,  —  not  in  one  solid  mass, 
like  agglutinated  grains  of  the  same  sand  consolidated  into 
a  piece  of  freestone.  Nothing  struck  my  Scotch  eyes,  in  the 
rural  districts,  as  more  umvonted  and  peculiar  than  the  state  of 
separatism  which  neighbors  of  a  class  that  in  Scotland  would 
be  on  the  most  intimate  terms  maintain  with  respect  to  each 
other.  I  have  seen,  in  instances  not  a  few,  the  whole  farmers 
of  a  Scotch  rural  parish  forming,  with  their  families,  one 
unbroken  circle  of  acquaintance,  all  on  visiting  terms,  and 
holding  their  not  unfrequent  tea-parties  together,  and  all  know- 
ing much  of  one  another's  history  and  prospects.  And  no 
Scotchman  resident  in  the  parish,  however  humble,  —  whether 
hind  or  laborer,  —  but  knew,  I  have  found,  Avho  lived  in  each 
farm-house,  and  was  acquainted  in  some  degree  with  at  least 
the  more  palpable  concerns  of  its  inm.ates.  Now,  no  such 
sociableness  appears  to  exist  in  the  rural  parishes  of  England  ; 
and  neighbor  seems  to  know  scarce  anything  of  neighbor. 

In    the  "  Essay   on    National   Character,"    we    find   Hume 

remarking  a   different  phase   of  the  same  phenomenon,  and 

afisigning  a  reason  f  r  it.     "We  may  often  observe,"  he  says, 

a  wonderf  il  nixture  of  manners  and  characters  in  the  same 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  419 

naiion,  speaking  the  same  language,  and  subje.t  to  tlic  sami- 
government ;  and  in  this  particular  the  English  are  the  mo.-t 
reaiarkab  e  of  any  people  that  perhaps  ever  were  in  the  world. 
Nor  is  this  to  be  ascribed  to  the  mutability  and  uncertainty  of 
their  climate,  or  to  any  other  physical  causes,  since  all  these 
causes  take  place  in  the  neighboring  country  of  Scotland, 
vvith:ut  having  the  same  effect.  Where  the  government  of  a 
nation  is  altogether  republican,  it  is  apt  to  beget  a  peculiar  set 
oi  manners.  Where  it  is  altogether  monarchical,  it  is  more 
opt  to  have  the  same  effect,  —  the  imitation  of  superiors  spread- 
ing the  national  manners  faster  among  the  people.  If  the 
governing  part  of  a  state  consists  altogether  of  merchants,  as 
in  Holland,  their  uniform  way  of  life  will  fi.K  the  character.  If 
it  consists  chiefly  of  nobles  and  landed  gentry,  like  Germany, 
France,  and  Spain,  the  same  effect  follows.  The  genius  of  a 
particular  sect  or  religion  is  also  apt  to  mould  the  manners  of  a 
people.  But  the  English  government  is  a  mixture  of  monarchy, 
aristocracy,  and  democracy.  The  people  in  authority  are  com- 
posed of  gentry  and  merchants.  All  sorts  of  religion  arc  to  be 
found  among  them  ;  and  the  great  liberty  and  independency 
which  every  man  enjoys  allows  him  to  display  the  manners 
peculiar  to  him.  Hence  the  English,  of  any  people  in  the 
universe,  have  the  least  of  a  national  character,  unless  this 
very  singularity  may  pass  for  such."  Such  is  the  estimate  of 
the  philosopher;  and  it  seems  but  natural  that,  in  a  country  in 
which  the  people  are  so  very  various  in  character,  the  extreme 
diversity  of  their  tastes,  feelings,  and  opinions,  should  fix  them 
rather  within  the  sphere  of  the  repulsive  than  of  the  attractive 
influences. 

Certain  it  is  that  the  multitudinous  sources  of  character  in 
England  do  not  merge  into  one  great  stream  :  the  runnels  keep 
npj^rt, each  pursuing  its  own  separate  course;  and  hence,  appar* 


I^JO  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

ently,  one  grand  cause  of  the  strange  state  of  separatisnn  which 
appears  among  the  people.  It  seems  scarce  possible  to  imagine 
a  fitter  soil,  than  that  furnished  by  a  characteristic  so  peculiar, 
for  the  growth  of  an  Independent  form  of  Christianity.  The 
influences  of  Evanj^ciism  are  attractive  in  their  nature  :  they 
form  the  social  prayer-meeting,  the  congregation,  the  national 
Church,  and,  spreading  outwards  and  onwards,  embrace  next 
the  Church  catholic  and  universal,  and  then  the  whole  human 
family.  And  unquestionably  in  the  Evangelism  of  Indepen- 
dency, as  in  Evangelism  in  ever}'  other  form,  there  is  much  of 
this  attractive  influence.  But  it  is  the  distinctive  peculiarity 
of  its  structure  that  it  insulates  every  congregation,  as  forming 
of  itself  a  complete  Christian  Church,  independent  in  its  laws, 
and  not  accountable  to  any  ecclesiastical  body  for  its  beliefs ; 
and  this  peculiarity  finds  in  the  English  mind  the  most  suitable 
soil  possible  for  its  growth.  The  country  of  insulated  men  is 
the  best  fitted  to  be  also  the  country  of  insulated  Churches. 
Even  the  Episcopacy  of  the  national  Church  has  assumed  in 
many  districts  a  decidedly  Independent  type.  The  congrega- 
tions exist  as  separate,  detached  communities,  —  here  Puseyite, 
there  Evangelical,  —  High  Church  in  one  parish.  Rationalistic 
in  another ;  and,  practically  at  least,  no  general  scheme  of 
government  or  of  discipline  binds  them  into  one. 

But  while  the  Englishman  is  thus  detached  and  solitary,  the 
Scotchman  is  mixed  up,  by  the  force  of  his  sympathies,  with 
the  community  to  which  he  belongs.  He  is  a  minute  portion 
of  a  great  aggregate,  which  he  always  realizes  to  himself  in  ita 
iggregate  character.  And  this  peculiarity  we  find  embodied 
in  our  proverbs  and  songs,  and  curiously  portrayed,  in  its  more 
blamable  or  more  ludicrous  manifestations,  in  the  works  of 
the  English  satirists.  "Most  Scotchmen,"  said  Johnson,  in 
auusion   to  the   Ossianic   controversy,   "  love   Scotland   bett<  ' 


KNGLAND  ANT)  ITS  PEOPLE.  421 

fhan  truth,  and  almost  all  of  them  love  it  better  than  inquirj'." 
"  You  are  almost  the  only  instance  of  a  Scotchman  that  I  havb 
known,"  we  find  him  saying,  on  another  occasion,  to  Bosweli 
"  who  did  not  at  every  other  sentence  bring  in  some  other 
Scotchman."  —  "One  grand  element  in  the  .success  of  Scotch- 
men in  London,"  he  yet  again  remarks,  "  is  their  nationality. 
Whatever  any  one  Scotchman  does,  there  are  five  hundred 
more  prepared  to  applaud.  1  have  been  asked  by  a  Scotch- 
man to  recommend  to  a  place  of  trust  a  man  in  whom  he  had 
no  other  interest  than  simply  that  he  was  a  countryman."  — 
"'Your  Grace  kens  we  Scotch  are  clannish  bodies,'"  says 
Mrs.  Glass,  in  the  "  Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,"  to  the  Duke  of 
Argyll.  "'So  much  the  better  for  us,'"  replies  the  Duke, 
"  'and  the  worse  for  those  who  meddle  with  us.'  "  —  "  Perhaps," 
remarks  Sir  Walter,  in  his  own  person,  in  the  same  work, 
"  one  ought  to  be  actually  a  Scotchman,  to  conceive  how 
ardently,  under  all  distinctions  of  rank  and  situation,  the 
Scotch  feel  the  mutual  connection  with  each  other,  as  natives 
of  the  same  country."  But  it  may  seem  needless  to  multiply 
illustrations  of  a  peculiarity  so  generally  recognized.  The 
gregariousness  of  the  Scotch.  —  "Highlanders!  shoulder  to 
shoulder,"  —  the  abstract  coherency  of  the  people  as  a  nation, 
—  their  peculiar  pride  in  the  history  of  their  country,  —  tlieir 
strong  exhilarating  associations  with  battle-fields  on  which  the 
conflict  terminated  more  than  six  hundred  years  ago,  —  their 
enthusiastic  regard  for  the  memory  of  heroes  many  centuries 
departed,  who  fought  and  bled  in  the  national  behalf,  —  are 
all  well-known  manifestations  of  a  prominent  national  trait. 
Unlike  the  English,  the  Scotch  form,  as  a  people,  not  a  heap 
of  detached  particles,  but  a  mass  of  aggregated  ones  ;  ana 
hence,  since  at  least  the  days  of  Knox,  Scotland  has  formed 
one  of  th  most  favorable  soils  for  the  growth  of  Protestf  nfsir , 
36 


422  FTR^T    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

m  a  Presbyterian  type,  which  the  world  has  yet  seen.  The 
insulating  bias  of  the  English  character  leads  to  the  formation 
of  insulated  Churches  ;  while  this  aggregate  peculiarity  of  the 
Scottish  character  has  a  tendency  at  least  equally  direct  to  bind 
its  congregations  together  into  one  grand  Church,  with  the 
area,  not  of  a  single  building,  but  of  the  whole  kingdom,  for 
its  platform.  It  is  not  uninstructive  to  mark,  in  the  national 
history,  how  thoroughly  and  soon  the  idea  of  Presbyterianism 
recommended  itself  to  the  popular  mind  in  Scotland.  Presby- 
terianism found  a  soil  ready  prepared  for  it  in  the  national 
predilection  ;  and  its  paramount  idea  as  a  form  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal government  seemed  the  one  natural  idea  in  the  circum- 
stances. An  Englishman  might  have  thought  of  gathering 
together  a  few  neighbors,  and  making  a  Church  of  them  ;  the 
Scotchman  at  once  determined  on  making  a  Church  of  all 
Scotland. 

It  seems  necessary  to  the  right  understanding  of  the  leading 
ecclesiastical  questions  of  Scotch  and  English  history,  that 
these  fundamental  peculiarities  of  the  two  countries  should  be 
correctly  appreciated.  The  attempt  to  establish  a  Scottish 
Church  on  an  English  principle  filled  an  entire  country  with 
persecution  and  sufTering,  and  proved  but  an  abortive  attempt, 
after  all.  And  a  nearly  similar  transaction  in  our  own  times 
has  dealt  to  the  cause  of  ecclesiastical  Establishments  in  Brit- 
ain by  far  the  severest  blow  it  has  ever  yet  sustained.  What 
was  perhaps  the  strongest  of  the  three  great  religious  Estab- 
lishments of  the  empire,  has  become,  in  at  least  an  equal 
degree,  the  weakest ;  and  a  weak  State  Church  placed  in 
*he  midst  of  a  polemical  people,  is  weakness  very  perilously 
posted. 

In  no  respect  did  the  national  Churches  of  England  anJ 
Scotland  differ  more,  as  originally  established,  —  ths  one  at  the 


ENGLAND    AND   ITS    PEOPLE.  423 

Keformalior.  and  Restoration,  the  other  at  the  Reformation  and 
Revolution,  —  than  in  the  place  and  the  degree  of  power  which 
they  assigned  to  the  civil  magistrate.  The  Scottish  Church 
gave  up  to  Iv.  s  control  all  her  goods  and  chattels,  and  the  per- 
sons of  her  members,  but  allowed  him  no  voice  in  ecclesiastical 
matters  ;  fully  recognizing,  however,  as  an  obvious  principle 
of  adjustment,  that  when  their  decisions  chanced  to  clash  in 
any  case,  the  civil  magistrate  should  preserve  his  powers  as 
intact  over  the  temporalities  involved,  as  the  Church  over  the 
spiritualities.  The  magistrate  m.aintained  his  paramount  place 
in  his  own  province,  and  disposed  at  will,  in  every  case  of  col- 
lision, of  whatever  the  State  had  given  to  the  Church, — 
lands,  houses,  or  money;  while  the  Church,  on  the  other  hand, 
maintained  in  her  own  peculiar  field  her  independence  entire, 
and  exercired  uncontrolled  those  inherent  powers  which  the 
State  had  not  conferred  upon  her.  She  wielded  in  the  purely 
ecclesiastical  field  a  sovereign  authority ;  but,  like  that  of  the 
British  monarch,  it  was  authority  subject  to  a  stringent  check : 
the  civil  magistrate  could,  when  he  willed,  stop  the  supplies. 
In  England,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  deemed  unnecessary  to  pre- 
serve any  such  nice  balance  of  civil  and  ecclesiastical  power. 
The  monarch,  in  his  magisterial  capacity,  assumed  absolute 
supremacy  in  all  cases,  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal  ;  and  the 
English  Church,  satisfied  that  it  should  be  so,  embodied  the 
principle  in  the  Articles,  which  all  her  clergy  are  necessitated 
to  subscribe.  So  essentially  different  was  the  genius  of  the 
two  countries,  that  the  claim  on  the  part  of  the  civil  nngis- 
trate  which  convulsed  Scotland  for  more  than  a  hundred  yars, 
to  be  ultimately  rejected  at  the  Revolution,  was  recognized  and 
admitted  in  England  at  once  and  without  c-itruggle. 

The  necessary  effects  of  this  ecclesiastical  supremacy'  on  the 
part  of  the  sovereign  are  of  a  kind  easily  estimated.     One  has 


424  FinST    IMPRESSIONS    OF 

but  to  (  bserve  its  workings,  and  then  try  it  by  its  fruits.  Thai 
there  exists  no  discipline  in  the  Anglican  Church,  is  an  inevita- 
ble conseqtaence  of  the  paramount  place  which  her  standards 
assign  to  the  civil  magistrate.  For  it  is  of  the  nature  of  civil 
law  that  it  will  not  bear  —  let  men  frame  its  requirements  and 
penalties  as  they  may  —  against  what  happen  for  the  time  to 
be  the  gentlemanly  vices.  If  hard  drinking  chance  to  be  fash- 
onable,  as  fashionable  it  has  been,  no  one  is  ever  punished  for 
hard  drinking.  A  gentleman  may  get  drunk  with  impunity  at 
a  chief  magistrate's  table,  and  have  the  chief  mq,gistrate's  com- 
panionship in  the  debauch,  to  set  him  all  the  more  at  his  ease. 
In  like  manner,  if  swearing  chance  to  be  fashionable,  as  fash- 
ionable it  has  been,  even  grave  magistrates  learn  to  swear,  and 
no  one  is  ever  fined  for  dropping  an  oath.  Exactly  the  same 
principle  applies  to  the  licentious  vices :  there  are  stringent 
laws  in  the  statute-book  against  bastardy;  but  who  ever  saw 
them  enforced  to  the  detriment  of  a  magistrate  or  a  man  of 
fortune  ?  And  it  is  by  no  means  in  exclusively  a  corrupt  state 
of  the  courts  of  law  that  this  principle  prevails  :  it  obtains 
also  in  their  ordinary  efficient  condition,  in  which  they  protect 
society  against  the  swindler  and  the  felon,  and  do  justice  be- 
tween man  and  man.  It  is  of  their  nature  as  civil  courts, — 
not  a  consequence  of  any  extraordinary  corruption,  —  that  they 
will  not  bear  against  the  gentlemanly  vices ;  and  it  is  equally 
of  their  nature,  too,  in  a  country  such  as  Britain,  in  which  the 
influence  of  the  toleration  laws  has  been  directing  for  ages  the 
course  of  public  opinion,  that  they  should  be  thoroughly  indif 
ferent  to  the  varieties  of  religious  belief.  Unless  the  heresiarch 
be  an  indecent  atheist,  who  insults  society  and  blasphemes  God, 
he  is  quite  as  good  a  subject,  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  as  the  ortho- 
dox assertor  of  the  national  creed. 

Now,  the  magistrate  does  not  relinquish  this  indifTerencv  to 


ENGLAND  AXD  ITS  PEOPl  E.  425 

mere  matters  of  doctrine,  ana  this  leniency  with  regard  to  the 
penteeler  offences,  by  being  iiade  supreme  in  ecclesiasti(;al 
matters.  On  the  contrary,  he  brings  them  with  him  into  the 
ecclesiastical  court,  where  he  decides  in  the  name  of  the  sov- 
ereign ;  and  the  clergyman,  whom  he  tries  ia  his  character  as 
such,  is  quite  as  safe,  if  his  vices  be  but  of  the  gentlemanly 
cast,  or  his  offences  merely  offences  of  creed,  as  if  he  were 
simply  a  layman.  Hence  the  unvarying  character  of  decisions 
by  the  English  judges  in  Church  cases.  Is  an  appeal  carried 
to  tlie  civil  magistrate  by  a  clergyman  deprived  for  drunken- 
ness ? —  the  civil  magistrate  finds,  as  in  a  late  instance,  that 
the  appellant  is,  ir.  the  main,  a  person  of  kindly  dispositions 
and  a  good  heart,  md  so  restores  him  to  his  office.  Is  an 
appeal  carried  by  a  clergyman  deprived  for  licentiousness 
and  common  swearing?  —  the  magistrate  concludes  that  there 
would  be  no  justice  in  robbing  a  person  of  his  bread  for  mere 
peccadilloes  of  so  harmless  a  character,  and  so  restores  him  to 
his  office.  Is  an  appeal  carried  by  a  clergyman  deposed  for 
simony?  —  the  civil  magistrate  finds  that  a  man  is  not  to  be 
cut  off  from  his  own  living  for  having  sold  some  two  or  three 
others,  and  so  restores  him  to  his  office.  Is  a  clergyman  a  fre- 
quenter, on  his  own  confession  in  open  court,  of  houses  of  bad 
fame? — What  of  that?  What  civil  magistrate  could  be  so 
recklessly  severe  as  to  divest  a  highly  connected  young  man 
t"or  so  slight  an  offence,  of  thirteen  hundred  a-year?  As  foj 
mere  affairs  of  doctrine,  they  are,  of  course,  slighter  mntters 
still  !  Let  the  Socinian  teach  undisturbed  in  this  parish 
church,  and  the  Puseyite  in  that, —  let  the  Arminian  dis- 
course yonder,  and  the  Calvinist  here,  —  the  civil  magistrate 
in  the  British  empire  is  toleration  personified,  and  casts  his 
shield  over  them  all.  And  such,  in  its  workings,  is  that  flagrant 
'.read  and  abbirrence  of  the  Evangelistic  Scotch,  Erastianism 
36* 


426  FIRST    IMPRESSIONS   OF 

It  is  impossible,  in  the  nature  of  things,  that  it  can  coexist  with 
discipline;  for  it  is  inherent  and  constitutional  to  it  to  substi- 
tute f:r  the  law  of  the  New  Testament  tlie  indiflferency  of  the 
civil  niagis;rate  to  mere  theological  distinctions,  and  his  sym 
patiiy  with  the  gentlemanly  vices. 

But  whi.e  such  seems  to  be  the  real  character  of  this  Eras- 
tian  principle,  the  Scotch  Presbyterian  who  judges  the  devout 
English  Episcopalian  in  reference  to  it  by  his  own  moral  stand- 
ard, and  the  devout  English  Episcopalian  who  decides  respect- 
ing the  Presbyterian  Scot  with  regard  to  it  by  his  own  peculiar 
feelings,  may  be  both  a  good  deal  in  error.  In  order  to  arrive 
at  a  just  conclusion  in  either  case,  it  is  necessary  to  take  into 
account  the  very  opposite  position  and  character  of  the  parlies, 
not  only  as  the  members  of  dissimilar  Churches,  but  also  as 
the  inhabitants  of  different  countries.  That  adhesive  coher- 
ency of  character  in  the  Presbyterian  Scot,  which  so  thoroughly 
identifies  him  with  his  country,  and  makes  the  entire  of  his 
Church  emphatically  his,  gives  to  the  Erastian  principle  a 
degree  of  atrocity,  in  his  estimate,  which,  to  the  insulated  Eng- 
lish Episcopalian,  practically  an  Independent  in  his  feelings, 
and  deeply  interested  in  only  his  own  congregation,  it  can- 
not possess.  A  John  Newton  at  Olney  may  feel  grieved  as  a 
Christian  that  Mr.  Scott,  the  neighboring  clergyman  of  Weston- 
Underwood,  should  be  a  rank  Socinian,  just  in  the  way  a 
devout  Independent  minister  in  one  of  the  chapels  of  London 
may  feel  grieved  as  a  Christian  that  there  should  be  a  Unita- 
rian minister  teaching  what  he  deems  deadly  error  in  another 
of  the  city  chapels  half  a  street  away.  But  neither  John  Newton 
nor  the  Independent  feel  aggrieved  in  conscience  by  the  fact  : 
enough  for  them  that  they  are  permitted  to  walk,  undisturbed, 
theii  round  of  ministerial  duty,  each  in  his  own  narrow  sphere. 
The  one  as  f  i  insulated  Englishman  and  an  Independent,  ia 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  427 

s  le  leading  rrcmberof  a  little  congregational  state,  and  all  con- 
£^ rogations  besides  arc  mere  foreign  states,  with  whose  internal 
government  he  has  nothing  to  do.  The  other,  as  an  insulated 
Englishman,  and  as  holding  in  an  unrepresentative  slumbrous 
despotism  a  subordinate  command,  whicl  resolves  itself  practi- 
cally, as  certainly  as  in  the  case  of  th:;  Independent,  into  a 
sort  of  leading  membership  in  a  detached  congregational  state, 
feels  himself  as  entirely  cut  off  from  the  right  or  duty  of  intei- 
fcrence  with  his  neighbors.  And  so  long  as  the  Erastian 
decision,  unequivocally  legalized  by  statute,  fails  to  press  upon 
him  individually,  or  to  operate  injuriously  on  his  charge,  he 
deems  it  a  comparatively  light  grievance  :  it  affects  a  foreign 
state,  —  not  the  state  that  is  emphatically  his.  But  not  such 
the  estimate  or  the  feelings  of  the  Presbyterian  Scot.  He  is 
not  merely  the  member  of  a  congregation,  but  also  that  of  a 
united,  coherent  Church, cot'xtensive  with  his  country,  and  whose 
government  is  representative.  There  is  not  a  congregation 
within  the  pale  of  the  general  body  in  which  he  has  not  a 
direct  interest,  and  with  regard  to  which  he  may  not  liave  an 
imperative  duty  to  perform.  He  has  an  extended  line  to 
defend  from  encroachment  and  aggression  ;  and  he  feels  that  at 
whatever  point  the  civil  magistrate  threatens  to  carry  in  the 
contamination  which,  when  he  assumes  the  ecclesiastical,  it  is 
his  nature  to  scatter  around  him,  he  must  be  determinedly 
resit:ted,at  whatever  expense.  Erastianism  to  the  Scot  and  the 
Presbyterian  is  thus  an  essentially  different  thing  from  what  it 
is  to  the  Episcopalian  and  the  Englishman.  It  is  a  sort  of  iron 
boot  to  both  ;  but,  so  far  at  least  as  feeling  is  concerned,  it  is 
around  the  vital  limb  of  the  Scotchman  ,that  it  is  made  to 
tighten,  while  in  the  case  of  the  Englishman  it  is  wedged 
round  merely  a  wooden  leg.  _ 

The  orrors  committed   by  the  government  of  the  country,  it 


428  FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OP 

legis.atir-g  for  Scotland  in  matters  of  religion  as  if  it  were  not 
a  separa'.3  nation,  possessed  of  a  distinct  and  strongly-marked 
character  Df  its  own,  but  a  mere  province  of  England,  have  led 
invariably  to  disaster  and  suffering.  Exactly  the  same  kind 
of  mistakes,  however,  when  dissociated  from  the  power  of 
the  State,  have  terminated  in  results  of  rather  an  amusing 
than  serious  character.  In  a  country  district  or  small  town 
m  Scotland,  in  which  the  Presbyterian  clergy  were  of  the  unpop- 
ular Moderate  type,  I  have  seen  an  Independent  meeting- 
house gt  into  a  flourishing  condition  ;  its  list  of  members 
would  gv  atly  lengthen,  and  its  pews  fill ;  and,  judging  from 
appearances  on  which  in  England  it  would  be  quite  safe  to  calcu- 
late, one  might  deem  it  fairly  established.  The  Independent 
preacher  in  such  cases  would  be  found  to  be  a  good  energetic 
man  of  the  Evangelistic  school ;  and  his  earnest  evangelism 
would  thus  succeed  in  carrying  it  over  the  mere  Presbyterian 
predilection  of  the  people.  The  true  Scotch  feeling,  however, 
would  be  lying  latent  at  bottom  all  the  while,  and  constitut- 
ing a  most  precarious  foundation  for  the  welfare  of  the  Inde- 
pendent meeting-house.  And  when  in  some  neighboring 
Presbyterian  church  an  earnest  Evangelistic  minister  came  to 
be  settled,  the  predilection  would  at  once  begin  to  tell  :  the 
Independent  congregation  would  commence  gradually  to  break 
up  and  dissipate,  until  at  length  but  a  mere  skeleton  would 
remain.  The  Independent  minister  would  have  but  one  point 
of  attraction  to  present  to  the  people,  —  his  Evangelism  ;  where- 
as the  Presbyterian  would  be  found  to  have  two,  —  his  Evan- 
gelism and  his  Presbyterianism  also  ;  and  the  double  power,  like 
that  of  a  double  magnet,  would  carry  it  over  the  single  one 
Some  of  my  readers  must  remember  the  unlucky  dispute  into 
which  the  editor  o'a  London  periodical,  representative  of  Eng- 
ish  Independency,  entered  about  a  twelvemonth  after  the  Dis- 


ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  429 

ruD'i  n,  wi  h  the  Free  Church.  It  hinged  entirely,  thoiifrh  I 
acre  cay  the  English  editor  did  not  know  it,  on  the  one  versus 
the  two  attractive  points.  An  Independent  chapel  had  been 
erected  in  the  north  of  Scotland  in  a  Moderate  district  ;  and 
Evangelism,  its  one  attractive  point,  had  acquired  for  it  a  con- 
gregation. But  through  that  strange  revolution  in  the  course 
of  aflfairs  which  terminated  in  the  Disruption,  the  place  got  a 
church  that  was  at  once  Evangelistic  and  Presbyterian ;  and 
the  church  with  the  two  points  of  attraction  mightily  thinned 
the  congregation  of  the  church  that  had  but  one.  The  deserted 
minister  naturally  enough  got  angry  and  unreasonable  ;  and 
the  Congregationalist  editor,  through  the  force  of  sympathy, 
got  angry  and  somewhat  unreasonable  too.  But  had  the  latter 
seen  the  matter  as  it  really  stood,  he  would  have  kept  his  tem- 
per. The  cause  lay  deep  in  the  long-derived  character  of  the 
Scotch ;  and  it  was  a  cause  as  independent  of  either  Congre- 
gationalism or  the  Free  Church,  as  that  pecuHarity  in  the 
soil  and  climate  of  an  African  island  which  makes  exactly  the 
same  kind  of  grapes  produce  Madeira  in  its  vineyards,  that  in 
the  vineyards  of  Portugal  prociuco  Sherry. 

After  a  stay  of  rather  more  tnaii  two  months  in  England,  I 
took  my  passage  in  one  of  the  Liverpool  steamers  for  Glasgow, 
and  in  somewhat  less  than  twenty-four  hours  after,  was  seated 
at  my  own  fireside,  within  half  a  mile  of  the  ancient  Palace 
of  Holyrood.  I  had  seen  much  less  of  the  English  and  their 
country  than  I  had  hoped  and  proposed  to  see.  I  had  left 
the  Chalk,  the  Wealden,  and  the  London  Clay  unexplored, 
and  many  an  interesting  ocality  assoiMated  with  the  literature  of 
the  country  unvisited  But  1  had  had  much  bad  weather, 
and  much  indifferent  hea.th  ;  I  had,  besides,  newspaper  article- 
writing  to  the  extent  of  at  least  a  volume,  to  engage  me  in  dull 
fejlitary  roomr,  when  the  pitiless  rain   was  dropping  heavily 


430  FIKST   IMPRESSIONS    OF    ENGLAND,    FTC. 

from  the  eaves  outside.  And  so,  if  my  journey,  like  that  o! 
Obidah,  the  son  of  Abensina,  has  in  its  discrepancies  between 
expectation  and  realization,  promise  and  performance,  resem- 
bled the  great  journey  of  life,  I  trust  to  be  not  very  severely 
dealt  with  by  the  reader  who  has  accompanied  me  this  far, 
and  to  whom  I  have  striven  to  communicate,  as  fairly  as  J 
have  been  able,  and  as  fully  as  circumstances  have  permitted 
nav  First  Impressions  of  England  and  its  Peop  e. 


^^',\ 


(A^ 


530  BHOADWAY,  NEViT  YOHK, 

Ocrouiii:,  IbSO. 


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Kev.  C.  H.  Spurgeon  says:  "Most  valuable.    "With  no  writer  do  we  inore  fully 

agree.    The  more  we  use  Hodge,  the  more  we  value  him.    This  applies  to  all  hia 

Commentaries." 

Hodge  (Rev.  A.  A.,  D.D.).     Outlines  of  Theology.     Revised  and 
Enlarged  Edition.     8vo.     !^3.00. 

"At  its  first  publication  in  1860,  this  work  attracted  much  attention,  and  ever 
since  it  has  had  a  large  sale,  and  been  carefully  studied  botli  in  this  country  and  in 
Great  Britain.  It  has  been  translated  into  Welsh  and  modern  Greek,  and  has 
been  used  as  a  text-book  in  several  theological  schools.  Prepared  originally  in 
good  part  from  notes  taken  by  the  author  from  his  distinguished  father's  lectures, 
with  the  assistance  of  standard  theological  writers,  after  fourteen  years  of  service 
as  a  theological  instructor,  he  has,  with  increased  knowledge  and  experience  as  a 
teacher,  embodied  in  this  new  and  enlarged  edition  not  only  the  treasures  of  the 
volume  as  it  first  appeared,  but  the  rich  results  of  his  additional  studies  and  inves- 
tigations This  new  edition  contains  fifty  per  cent  more  of  matter  than  the  former 
one.  Two  chapters  have  been  dropped,  and  five  new  ones  have  been  added."  — 
Presbyterian  Baimer. 

Holt  (Emily  Sarah).     Historical  Tales. 

IsouLT  Barry.     12mo $1.50 

Robin  Tremayne.     12mo 1.50 

The  Well  in  the  Desert.     16mo 1.25 

AsHCLiFFE  Hall.     16mo    .     . 1.25 

Verena  ;  A  Tale.     12rao 1.50 

The  White  Rose  of  Langley.     12mo      ....     1.50 

Imogen.     12mo 1.50 

Clare  Avery.     12mo .     150 

Lettice  Eden.     12mo 150 

For  the  Master's  Sake.     16mo 1.00 

Margery''s  Son.     12mo 1-50 

Lady  Sybil's  Choice.     12mo 1.50 

The  Maiden's  Lodge.     12mo 1.25 

"  Whether  it  is  regarded  in  its  historical  or  its  religious  aspect,  '  Isoult  Barry  of 
Wynscote  '  is  the  finest  contribution  to  English  literature,  of  its  peculiar  clj.ss, 
whidi  has  been  made  in  the  present  century."  —  Aijierican  Baptist. 


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